


Primary Colors

by RobotSquid



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Tearjerker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-18
Updated: 2012-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 06:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 93,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobotSquid/pseuds/RobotSquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a young troll living in the desert with the Dolorosa, the Signless comes across an unconscious psionic wriggler.  Over the next few nights, they come to understand and care for each other.  Although seemingly destined to be apart, they make a promise to be together again.  But the destructive ways of the highbloods are becoming more widespread, and as the Signless begins to dream, he dedicates himself to regaining the peaceful world Alternia once was.  But troll society as it stands now holds no sympathy for a candy red mutant, a psionic slave, or the matespritship they have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Psionic

“Tell me again.  How exactly did you manage this?”

“Like I _said_ ,” he insisted, struggling to keep still as the Dolorosa calmly stitched the ripped hood back onto his cloak.  “I was fighting a baby musclebeast.  You know, for dinner.  And it got away.”

“Mm-hmm,” the Dolorosa replied, the smile apparent in her voice.  “And I’m certain you were the one who frightened it off, and not the other way around?”

“O-of course!” he protested, whirling around to face her.  She patiently turned him back around.  He was sitting on her lap, swinging his feet anxiously, as she salvaged what she could of the ruined cloak and hood.  Absently he rubbed at the deep scratch on his cheek from where he’d tripped and fallen flat on his face.

“Sorry, Rosa,” he finally admitted, his voice quiet.  “I’ll be more careful next time.”

“I know.  It’s all right.”  She tugged experimentally at the stitching.  “There.  That should do it.”  She lifted him up off her lap and set him down on the ground before her.  She frowned, inspecting the wide gash on her grub’s face.

“That’s a nasty one,” she declared, her tone suddenly more serious.  “Are you bleeding anywhere else?”

He averted his eyes, embarrassed.  “No,” he muttered quietly.  “I checked.  I’m fine.  And nobody saw me, all right?  There’s not even any other trolls out here.”

She sighed wearily.  “I know, love.  But you have to trust me.  We can’t assume that will be true forever.”

“I bet other trolls aren’t even as bad as you say,” he protested as she reached for some bandages.  “I bet some would even like us.”

“Oh, some might,” the Dolorosa replied, wetting a rag and scrubbing out the dried red blood from his face.  “And others wouldn’t.  You can’t trust everybody.  It’ll get easier for you to determine who’s a friend and who’s not when you get older.”

He scoffed, the impatient huff of an all-knowing child.  “If I ever _meet_ anybody else….”

As the Dolorosa taped a bandage to his face she put on an overdramatic expression of hurt.  “With all that talk, a lusus could think you don’t even love her anymore.”

His eyes widened.  “I didn’t mean _that_ , Rosa!  Sheesh.”  The Dolorosa only laughed and ruffled his hair.

“I know, love, I know.”  She stood up.  “Why don’t you go find us some little shellbeasts for dinner?  I think you should stick with hunting food your own size for a while.”

He shoved her playfully, then picked up his basket and toy sickle and immediately bounded back out into the wilderness.  The Dolorosa watched him go until he was completely out of her sight, then went inside to prep the rest of the food.

\---

If you knew where to look, the desert was crawling with fat, juicy shellbeasts, the kind with tiny claws and a big stinger tail.  Apparently they were tricky to cook since they were poisonous if you didn’t do it right, but cooking them wasn’t his concern.  Rosa did that part.  All Carmine had to do was catch them.

And that was easy.  They were easy to spot crawling across the sand, scurrying along with their little legs, which could never hope to outrun him.  All he had to do was come up from behind and quickly lop off the tail, ridding them of the stinger and their one poisonous weapon.  Then up into the basket they went, and it was on to the next one.

He was apparently all done with bad luck for the day after the incident with the musclebeast, and it was all good fortune from here on out.  His basket was just about overflowing in no time.  They might not even finish all this food tonight.  The prospect of maybe not having to go hunting for food for one night sparked a fire in him, and he didn’t stop grabbing up the little shellbeasts even when they were quite literally falling out of the basket.

At some point, he remembered that Rosa was waiting for him, and he’d better head back before she came looking for him.  He turned back, his stomach already growling with the anticipation of tonight’s assured feast.

There was a large boulder he had to pass on his way back to the hive.  It usually served as a guidepost, so if he ever wasn’t sure that he was heading in the right direction, he could find this rock and know home wasn’t far.

It also happened to be the ideal spot for shellbeasts to hide.

His curiosity and overconfidence bursting, he decided to take one quick look by the rock, just to see if there were any bigger ones he could swap out for.  He ran up to the boulder, and circled it once—

—there was another troll there.

Startled, Carmine stumbled backwards, falling down onto the sand and inadvertently liberating a few of his captured prey.  The initial shock wore off quickly, and he realized that this troll wasn’t moving.  It was asleep, or unconscious, or something.  In any case, it wasn’t _doing_ anything.

Curious, he crawled closer to get a better look.  It was little, not Rosa’s size at all.  More like his own size.  Maybe even his own age?  Inwardly he felt a swell of excitement.  He’d never even seen another troll before.  Had never known in what ways he and another were different, or even the same.

For one thing, this troll had _four_ horns.  He wondered if that was normal, or something mutated, like his blood.  Maybe he had the same color blood.  He searched the troll’s clothes for a sign, because Rosa said all trolls normally were given a sign, which they were required to wear for the first few sweeps of their life along with their blood color.

The sleeping troll’s sign was kind of…boring.  It just looked like a square whose sides had been squished in.  It wasn’t pretty like Rosa’s.  And the sign was yellow.  That meant this troll had lower blood than Rosa’s, too.  Would she hate him?  Would she try to cull him?

Carmine frowned.  He didn’t think so.  She wasn’t that kind of troll.  But then again…the outfit this troll was wearing was completely lacking in any taste whatsoever.  _That_ might offend her.

He decided to take his chances, and he poked warily at the unconscious troll.  It didn’t move.  Was it dead?  Maybe it was sick.  Well, if it didn’t wake up soon the sun would be up and then he’d really be in trouble…no, he couldn’t just leave the troll out here.

His decision made, he pulled the troll up and, somewhat awkwardly, through several different tries, positioned him onto his back.  He picked up the basket of shellbeasts, and jogged the rest of the way back home.

\---

“Rosa!” he shouted, bursting in through the front door.  The hive was already full of the warm aroma of the soup the Dolorosa was preparing.  “Rosa!”

“What _is_ it, love?” she called from the kitchen.  “Please use your indoor voice.”

“Come here, I have something to show you!”  He laid the basket down on the floor and then somewhat clumsily dropped the sleeping troll onto the couch.  He was getting more and more excited by the minute.  “Rosa!” he called again.

“Yes, yes, I’m _coming_ , what is it…” she asked, appearing from the other room.  She stopped midsentence as she saw her young wriggler leaning excitedly over an unconscious troll in their living room.

“Look, Rosa, look what I found!” he announced happily.  “He was outside, all by himself, and I saved him, Rosa.”

“I…um…” she stammered, approaching him warily.  She studied the unconscious troll, apparently seeing things that he didn’t, pursing her lips and looking more and more uneasy as time went on.

“Well?” Carmine asked anxiously, his grin widening.  “Isn’t he _cool_?  Look, he’s got four horns!  You didn’t tell me trolls could have four horns!”

“Where did you say you found him again?” the Dolorosa asked apprehensively.

“Outside, just outside there, by the big boulder!”  He pointed out the window.  His expression suddenly became more solemn.  “I think he might be sick.  He doesn’t move or wake up.  Can you help him?  I didn’t want to leave him out in the sun….”

The Dolorosa nodded.  “Yes, I’ll help him.  Did you see anybody else around?”

He exhaled loudly and insisted, “ _Noooo_ , I didn’t, okay?!  But he’s my _age_ , Rosa, maybe he’ll want to stay here with us and be my friend….”

“Let’s let him rest for now,” said the Dolorosa, interrupting him and heading back for the kitchen.  “He doesn’t look particularly hurt to me, just exhausted.  We’ll decide what to do then.”  She turned to face her young wriggler.  “Come help me, love.”

“I want to stay here and watch him.”

“Listen to your lusus and come help me in the kitchen.”

“…Urgh.  Fine.”  Reluctantly he grabbed up the basket and went into the next room to assist.  At that moment he was even more glad for the bountiful catch, because when the other troll woke up there’d be plenty of food for him too.

\---

He ate his food but was too excited to even really taste it.  He kept glancing over his shoulder to the couch to see if the troll had woken up, or even moved, but each time he was met with disappointment.  After supper he went outside to wash the dishes, but was a bit too haphazard about it and the Dolorosa made him go back to do it again.  Finally, when all the chores were done, he was free to just sit there across from the sofa and watch the yellow-blood troll sleep.

The Dolorosa sat in the room quietly with them, working on lengthening a pair of pants that he was starting to outgrow.  It was silent for a long while, the only sounds being the soft pricking and pulling of the Dolorosa’s needle, and the sleeping troll’s breathing.

Finally, finally, when the sun was at its highest point in the sky, the troll began to stir.

“He’s awake!” Carmine exclaimed.  “Rosa, look—!”

“Oh, hush, love, don’t shout so loud at him,” she replied, setting her work aside and approaching them both.  She sat down on the end of the couch, watching the yellow-blood come slowly back to the waking world.

\---

His head was throbbing with dehydration.  Muffled sounds and unfamiliar smells were filling up all his senses, almost too much to process all at once.  Carefully, painfully, he opened his eyes, and the first thing he saw was another troll’s eyes inches from his own face.

“Oh wow!” the other troll exclaimed.  “His eyes are so cool!”

He blinked.  He realized he didn’t actually recognize this troll.  In fact…just where in the hell was he?  He had been out on a training exercise earlier tonight, hadn’t he…?  This didn’t feel like the desert, whose hive was this…?

“Oh for goodness’ sake,” came another troll’s voice.  A female.  An adult.  “Will you calm down?”

“Hey,” said the small troll again.  He backed up just a bit, enough so that his whole face was now visible.  He was grinning from ear to ear, looking like he had never even known excitement before.  His whole body was covered in a drab, anonymous gray cloth, and there was no sign anywhere on it.  His horns were so short and nubby they were almost invisible in his mass of black hair.  “Hey, what’s your name?”

He blinked.  How in the hell were a wriggler and an adult here, together…?

The nubby-horned troll barely waited for an answer.  “That’s my lusus, the Dolorosa,” he said, pointing to the adult troll at the foot of the couch.  “I call her Rosa.  You can too, I don’t mind.  And she calls me Carmine.  You can call me that too.  What do we call you?”

“All right,” said the Dolorosa softly, taking hold of the wriggler’s shoulder and pushing him back.  “Go get him some water, love.”

“Okay.  I’ll be right back!”  He leapt up and ran, stomping excitedly, out of the room.  The Dolorosa sighed and turned to face him, smiling.

“You’ll have to forgive him.  I’m afraid you’re the first troll he’s seen besides me in his whole life.  He’s…quite excitable.”

The yellow-blooded troll nodded.  He grabbed onto the back of the sofa and pulled himself up to a sitting position.  The Dolorosa helped him along carefully.  He winced, his head throbbing and distorting his vision.

“You’re a psionic, aren’t you?” she asked quietly.  He averted his red and blue eyes and nodded.  “And you’re already in service.  Am I right?”

He swallowed tightly and didn’t respond.

“Mother grub…” she said softly.  “You’re the youngest I’ve seen.  It must be getting worse.”  She shook her head, frustration in her eyes.  “I was afraid of this.  The highbloods are getting out of control.”

He looked anxious when she said that, as if he had somehow committed treason just by hearing it.  At that moment, Carmine came racing back into the room, holding a cup filled to the brim with ice cold water.

“Here you go,” he said, holding it out expectantly.  The psionic took it graciously, showing only a split second of hesitation, and downed it all in one gulp.  Carmine looked positively gleeful.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.  “Because Rosa made this amazing stew for dinner.  I can heat it back up for you if you want it.”

The yellow-blood nodded, a bit warily.  This troll was…certainly eager to help.  It was a strange personality trait to have.  Nobody was ever this interested in his comfort, unless of course they wanted something…these trolls were probably going to want something sooner or later too.

“Okay.  Wait right there!”  He started for the kitchen, only to stop for a moment and turn back.  “Rosa am I allowed to use the stove?”

“Yes, love.  Just be careful.”

It didn’t take long for the aroma of the reheated stew to fill the hive.  The Dolorosa went back to her sewing for the time being, while the yellow-blood sat on the couch lethargically, trying to stay still in hopes that his headache would disappear.  Whatever Carmine was putting together in the other room smelled amazing.  He hadn’t realized just _how_ hungry he was, and just how long it had been since he’d had somebody cook a meal for him at all.

He came back, holding a full bowl of the best looking food the yellow-blood had ever seen.  It was a struggle to remember his manners and wait until the bowl was set down in front of him before he grabbed it and the spoon and began shoveling everything into his mouth.  Everything in it was otherworldly delicious.  He’d never tasted so many flavors at once, never had something so warm and made with actual care and attention, he could have cried from how good it all tasted.  He didn’t even feel shame at licking the bowl when it was all done.

“Wow,” was all Carmine said when he was done, staring wide-eyed.  “He really likes your cooking, Rosa.”

The yellow-blood smiled sheepishly.

“So how come you have two different color eyes?  And why were you out in the desert?  You never told me your name either, by the way.”

The yellow-blood didn’t answer.  Carmine frowned.

“I guess you don’t talk or something.  Or is it me?”  He suddenly looked worried.  “Rosa, did you and him talk while I was gone?  Does he just not want to talk in front of me?”

She giggled softly.  “No, love.  He doesn’t talk at all.  And you shouldn’t gawk at his eyes like that, it’s rude.  They’re that way because he’s a psionic.”

“A psionic, huh?” Carmine grinned.  “I’m gonna call you that, then, until you tell me different.  Okay, Psionic?”

He appeared to consider it a moment, then smiled a bit shyly, and nodded.  He suppressed a yawn.

“How are you still tired?  You were just asleep for like a million hours….”  He paused, trying to hide his own yawn as well.

“It’s far past time you were in your recuperacoon,” the Dolorosa said, putting her work away for now.  “Upstairs with you.”

“Where’s the Psionic going to sleep, though?  Sopor would be good for him, wouldn’t it?  Hey, Psionic, do you want to share my recuperacoon?  I don’t kick or anything in my sleep.”  He held out his hand.

After a moment of thought, the Psionic accepted it.  Carmine grinned and went running up the stairs, dragging the surprised Psionic along behind him.

“It’s not a very big recuperacoon,” Carmine explained as they stepped into his little respiteblock.  He untied the hood and cloak around his shoulders and tossed it into one of the many heaping piles of clothes that littered the floor.  “But you’re really skinny so you’ll fit just fine.”  He hopped inside, and the Psionic followed cautiously, but once his body hit the warm, soothing green slime, he relaxed.  It had been a long time since he’d slept in this stuff.  He’d forgotten how nice it felt.

“I’ll show you all my stuff tomorrow,” Carmine promised, sleep already creeping into his voice.  “And we can go hunting together too.  I’m real good with my sickle, I’ll show you….”

He was already asleep.  The Psionic smiled and shut his eyes.  He wasn’t far behind.


	2. Gifts

When the Psionic woke up, he found he was so comfortable he didn’t even want to open his eyes at first. Wherever he was, it was warm, and full of soothing sopor slime, and he wasn’t even starving. He could lie here as long as he wanted and not get in trouble, it seemed like….

Remembering, he opened his eyes and sat up straight, bursting out of the top of the recuperacoon. He didn’t recognize this respiteblock, it looked like a wriggler’s respiteblock, certainly not his own, how had he ended up here…?

“You’re awake!” came a perky voice. The Psionic turned. Everything from yesterday flooded back into him. The anonymous little wriggler and his adult lusus. The Psionic wanted to relax as he remembered their kindness, their gracious hospitality, but at the same time he wasn’t supposed to be here, he was supposed to be doing his test in the wilderness. Spending the day in a stranger’s hive wasn’t going to make his trainer happy. It was cheating.

The wriggler—Carmine, he remembered now—was picking through a huge pile of clothes in the middle of the floor and sloppily folding them. He abandoned the task at seeing the Psionic awake.

“Sorry about all this,” he said sheepishly, gesturing to the mess. “Rosa said I had to pick up my respiteblock if you were going to stay here. But she makes SO many clothes for me, it’s not my fault they end up everywhere!”

The Psionic grinned. He didn’t mind it.

“Anyway,” Carmine continued, “now that you’re up, let’s go outside! You’re feeling better today, aren’t you?”

The Psionic nodded. The supper from last night had really done him good. He didn’t regret that part, cheating or not.

“Good!” Carmine offered out his hand and helped him out of the recuperacoon. “We were going to have the rest of Rosa’s stew for dinner tonight, but since you ate the rest of it and you’re going to stay for supper too, we have to go out and catch something.” Carmine grinned. “We’re going to go get that musclebeast today.”

The Psionic regarded him quizzically, but allowed himself to be dragged out of the room and downstairs into the hive. Carmine hurriedly shouted, “Rosa we’re going outside!” before grabbing a little toy sickle by the door and pulling the Psionic outside.

“Okay, so,” Carmine said, stopping to explain. “There’s these musclebeasts that live out here, right? They’re little, but I’ve only been able to kill one like…once. But I’m getting better at finding them! And if you’re here to help me, we’re sure to get a big one.” He frowned. “Hey what are psionics anyway?”

The Psionic grinned and began to search the landscape. He pointed towards a distant, dry bush.

Blue and red sparks of energy clouded up around the Psionic’s eyes and hands. He gestured towards the bush, making a lifting motion with his hands, and the red-and-blue force surrounded the bush, and it was violently, effortlessly ripped free from the ground, roots and all, and hung in the air. Another quick gesture from the Psionic, and the bush exploded into bits of brush and twigs and dirt. He turned to Carmine and grinned satisfactorily.

Carmine’s eyes were wide and his mouth hung open. “O-oh…wow!” he stammered, completely overcome. He turned to stared at the Psionic. “I didn’t know there were trolls who could do stuff like that! I bet…I bet nobody messes with you at all! I bet you can do anything you want with that kind of power!”

The Psionic’s face fell. Carmine noticed it immediately, and his excitement evaporated. He frowned. “I mean, well…” he murmured, worried that he had somehow offended the Psionic, “I don’t know that much about other trolls but I know about the hemospec-…hemospec-thing and I know yellow’s not that high up but…there can’t be _that_ many other trolls who can do what you can! It must be great for you!”

The Psionic frowned and shrugged, shaking his head.

Carmine scowled angrily. “Well that’s…that’s _wrong_.”

The Psionic shrugged again. Didn’t matter if it was wrong or not. It was the way things were.

“Well,” Carmine said. “Rosa says that stuff is important to other trolls but it doesn’t really mean anything. _I_ certainly don’t care what color your blood is or any of that stuff.”

The Psionic’s eyes widened. That was…he’d never actually heard anybody say anything like that before. It was…oddly liberating to hear. He grinned widely.

“…Thankth,” he said softly.

“Hey!” Carmine exclaimed. “You _can_ talk!” He frowned. “Why haven’t you said anything all this time, then?”

He shrugged. “I don’t…really like to,” he said, his voice barely loud enough to hear. “I have a li-…a bit of a…a lithp.”

“A what?”

The Psionic narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “A li— _lithp_.”

Carmine blinked stupidly.

“I don’t talk right!” the Psionic shouted in embarrassed frustration.

“I don’t think it’s that big a deal.”

“Well, try getting made fun of for thomething for your whole life. It geth-- _gets_ \--to be a big deal.” There was a faint yellow blush on his cheeks.

“I’m not going to make fun of you. I think I like it, actually.” He smiled.

“No you don’t. _Nobody_ liketh it.”

“Well I do!” Carmine insisted. “I like a lot of things about you, Psionic.”

“How could you? You’ve only known me for a little while.”

“Well…” Carmine averted his eyes and absently scratched his head. “I don’t know! I can’t explain it really. You might think I’m kinda weird for saying this but I guess I feel like I sort of know you from somewhere?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. All I know is you’re my friend and you’re staying here with us.”

The Psionic knew that couldn’t be true. If he was really honest with himself, he’d find that the thought of staying here with Carmine and the Dolorosa was, to say the least, inviting. But he couldn’t do it. He’d have to go back in a few nights. He’d failed the test, he knew it already. His trainer would know that he hadn’t followed the rules, he hadn’t survived on his own. He’d gotten help. He’d get in trouble for that.

But he decided not to say anything for now. He wasn’t in trouble now. He wasn’t going to be for a while at least. So what was the point of ruining it?

He nodded and the two of them went running off into the wilderness to hunt down the musclebeasts.

\---

It had been exciting and way more fun than he’d ever anticipated, hunting with Carmine. He hadn’t even seemed to mind that the Psionic’s power made it so easy to catch the musclebeast. It was still tricky, still a bit of a delicate process because strong as the Psionic was, he was still only four sweeps old and had barely had any psionic training yet.

But Carmine seemed to know what he was doing at least. The Psionic was mostly providing him with an extra edge: making the musclebeast trip when it tried to run away, yanking Carmine out of the way when it tried to charge, blowing up sand and dust in its eyes so Carmine could run around the back to go in for the kill.

When they returned back to the hive, dead musclebeast in tow, the Dolorosa’s face upon seeing them was nearly unreadable. As Carmine excitedly recounted to her the whole tale, she looked as though she couldn’t quite decide to be angry, surprised, happy, afraid…it all ran through her expression at once. She knelt down and inspected Carmine’s face thoroughly as he continued to talk breathlessly. She checked his clothes for any rips, any tears, asked him over and over if he’d hurt himself, if he’d fallen down, if he was okay…and kept glancing over to the Psionic almost guiltily as she did so. If Carmine noticed any of it, he gave no sign.

Eventually, the Dolorosa ended up smiling. She told them both to spend some time outdoors, as it was a nice night and it shouldn’t be wasted. They both helped bring the musclebeast around back before darting back off into the desert.

The Psionic couldn’t believe how much Carmine _talked_. Everything needed a comment, everything in his head couldn’t stay there, seemingly, it had to break free and be announced. It wasn’t as though he minded. The Psionic didn’t like talking, so it was nice to just be able to listen. Even if what he was listening to had little to no substance.

There wasn’t much scenery out in the desert. Mostly bushes and rocks and the occasional steadfast flower. They had gone out quite a ways, just walking and talking—mostly listening on the Psionic’s part—until Carmine suddenly decided he was tired and didn’t want to walk anymore.

They both plopped down in front of a giant boulder, not unlike the one where Carmine had found him to begin with.

“Hey, so,” he said, turning to face the Psionic, “where’d you come from anyway? You were just laying out here.”

The Psionic frowned a bit. He didn’t really want to talk about it…it had been so nice being able to forget about it for a while. “…I’m training,” he eventually said.

“For what?” Carmine’s eyes were wide and attentive.

He shrugged. “I don’t really know yet. I just have to train until my psionics are really, really good. Then I get to work for a blueblood, or maybe even a highblood, or if I’m really, _really_ good, I might work for a seatroll.”

“Work for them doing what?” Carmine frowned, clearly perplexed.

“Well…well I don’t know yet!” the Psionic insisted. “Whatever they need, I guess. There’s lots of demand for psionics. We can do all kinds of things, all kinds of things that the highbloods can’t….” He trailed off. He looked pensive all of a sudden.

“So…” Carmine asked after a small silence, “does that mean…you’re gonna leave?”

“Well, yeah. At some point I have to.” His voice went quiet. “Or my trainer will be really mad.”

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” He sounded almost frantic. The Psionic turned to look at him. Carmine’s whole expression was apprehensive and a little pathetic. “I want you to _stay_. Come on, won’t you, please?”

“I can’t.”

“At least visit me?”

“…I can’t.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Carmine exhaled with frustration. “When do you have to leave?” he asked tightly.

“I was thupposed to thurvive on my own for four nights,” the Psionic replied. “To prove that I could. To see what I could do with just my skills and the things I’ve learned. It’s been two. So I can stay two more nights.”

“And then that’s it? I won’t see you again?”

“…I don’t know. I kind of hope not.” The Psionic gave him a tiny smile. “You know I’ve already kind of failed the test by thtaying with you. Maybe my trainer will make me do it again, and I’ll be back.”

Carmine laughed. “Maybe. Or maybe I could come with you!” The Psionic’s face descended into a look of horror. “Maybe I could work with you, and then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad!”

“No!” the Psionic insisted, so sharply Carmine practically jumped. “No, you don’t want to come with me. Just…you should stay here. With your luthus.” He drew his knees up to his chest and crossed his arms on top of them. “…I miss mine,” he added softly.

“What happened to it?”

The Psionic swallowed tightly. “They killed it.”

“What!?” Carmine exclaimed. “ _Why?_ ”

“They do it to every psionic. It’s so we don’t have anywhere to go back to. So we won’t try to run away. It’s not just me.”

“But how could—?” Carmine stopped midsentence, angrily swinging his sickle against the dirt. “If anybody ever did anything to Rosa I’d kill them.”

There was a long, heavy silence between the two of them.

“Sorry,” Carmine mumbled, tracing meaningless lines in the dirt with his sickle blade. “I didn’t know other trolls did stuff like that. I guess Rosa was right. They’re bad people, other trolls.”

The Psionic didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say to that.

“But at the same time…” Carmine continued, “I feel like…that _can’t_ be true. Because…Rosa’s not like that. You’re not like that.” He paused. “I don’t know.”

There was another silence. A tiny wind blew across the desert, sending little pebbles and tumbleweed scattering. Carmine stood up, grabbing his sickle with one hand and extending the other to the Psionic. The Psionic took it and got to his feet, and Carmine didn’t let go of him. For an instant it was uncomfortable, but then the Psionic relaxed. They held hands the whole rest of the way back to the hive. In silence, which, considering the journey out here, was odd.

When they arrived back, the Dolorosa was sitting outside on small stool, sewing buttons on some assuredly new piece of clothing. She looked up when she heard their footsteps approaching, and smiled warmly.

“Welcome back, little grubs,” she said. “Did you have fun?”

Carmine was still seething. “I guess,” he mumbled.

The Dolorosa frowned, then set the garment down on her lap and smoothed it out. “Well, while you two were gone, I made something for you, Psionic.”

Both wrigglers perked up. The Dolorosa stood up and held out what she had been working on. It was a thick yellow shirt, with long warm sleeves, the same color as the Psionic’s blood. In the middle was a newly-sewn black sign, _his_ sign.

“I hope you don’t mind that’s one of Carmine’s old things,” the Dolorosa explained, gesturing for the Psionic to lift his arms so he could try it on. “But he never took a liking to this one. I modified it for you.”

She tugged it on over his body and it was a perfect fit. The Dolorosa was still talking, commenting on something or other, but the Psionic wasn’t listening. He grabbed the edge of the shirt and pulled it out so he could look at it, staring down in awe at the beautifully embroidered sign on his chest, reveling in the warmth of the garment, completely, utterly, totally floored by this act of kindness.

The Psionic cut her off midsentence as he ran up and threw his arms tight around her, squeezing as hard as he could. For a moment she was taken off guard, and then he felt her soft, gently hands patting the top of his head. It felt just like how his lusus used to comfort him.

“Thank you, Rosa,” he said, muffled against her body. “Thank you….”


	3. The Promise

“What kind of a name is ‘Carmine’ anyway?” the Psionic asked, his mouth full. They were eating some orange fruit he’d never seen before; apparently they grew all over the place in the desert if you knew where to look, and they were Carmine’s favorite treat when they were in season.

“Rosa says it’s a kind of red color,” he replied, biting into the fruit messily. “She says it was her favorite color so that’s why she named me that.”

“Why do you have an adult for a lusus?”

Carmine shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t care, either. Rosa’s the best lusus in the whole world.” There was a swell of pride in his eyes.

The Psionic grinned. He could agree with that.

It was his third night staying at the hive. Tomorrow would be the last one, but he wasn’t going to think about that, not now. Right now, he was sitting in front of the hive with Carmine, eating this weird fruit and getting the juice all over the front of his new shirt but not caring at all because it tasted so good, and he was happy…really happy.

“Hey so I was thinking about it…” Carmine suddenly blurted out, “and I think I found out a way we can see each other again.”

The Psionic felt his mood drop. He’d really wanted to avoid talking about that. He just wanted things to be normal, just for a little while longer. He wanted to pretend _this_ was normal, that he really lived here, that he wouldn’t _have_ to leave. “What’s that?” was all he said aloud.

“When I get big,” Carmine said, reaching for the sickle that was always at his side, “I’m gonna be a threshecutioner. And maybe your trainer will let you train to be one of the psionics that works with them.”

“…Maybe,” the Psionic mumbled. “But I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

Carmine frowned. “Why not?”

“Well….” The Psionic shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not like there aren’t psionics that are also threshecutioners or cavalreapers or stuff like that, but…that’s really for the psionics that…aren’t so good.” He paused, waiting for Carmine to understand what he meant. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t.

“My trainer says,” the Psionic continued, “that I’m really, really good. Like, naturally. Normally they wouldn’t make me start training until I was six or seven sweeps old but I’m good enough that they took me early. They’re not going to waste me on threshecutioners.”

“So what are you going to do, then?” Carmine frowned. “You told me yesterday that you didn’t know _what_ you were training for!”

“Well…I don’t, not really. I’ll probably end up being some troll’s personal psionic, or….” He stopped, reconsidering something. Then, much, much quieter, he said, “Or, I might be assigned to one of the ships in the Empress’s fleet.”

“Wow!” Carmine exclaimed. The Psionic looked up, perplexed. That certainly hadn’t been the reaction he’d expected. “So you’ll like be on a spaceship? And go to other planets?”

“Well…” the Psionic stammered, aghast, “well, yeah, but I wouldn’t—”

“Don’t you think that’d be really cool? You’d get to see all the stars and everything!”

“I, uh….” Carmine’s excitement faded when he saw the way the blood was draining from the Psionic’s face. “I don’t know…if it’d really be…that fun….”

“…Oh. Okay.” There was an uncomfortable silence. “Well, when I’m a threshecutioner, and if you end up on one of the Empress’s ships, I’ll make sure I’m on the same one with you.” Carmine grabbed the Psionic’s hand with juicy, sticky fingers. “That way you won’t be alone. And you won’t be scared.”

The Psionic warily gripped Carmine’s hand, but it was a halfhearted squeeze. He murmured something too quietly to hear.

“What?” Carmine asked, leaning in closer.

“…You’ll forget,” the Psionic said. “You’ll forget you promised that.”

Carmine frowned, and didn’t respond for a while. After a moment or two, he began to look around for something, then eventually picked up his sickle.

“When Rosa tells me I have to do something by the end of the night…” he said, “sometimes she’ll draw a little shape on my hand. It’s ‘cause I forget stuff a lot. That way, when I see it, I’ll try to remember why it’s there and then I’ll remember what it was she wanted me to do.”

The Psionic blinked uncomprehendingly.

“So what I’m going to do…” he said, holding up the sickle blade, “is draw a shape on my hand that won’t go away, so I’ll never forget.”

Carefully, he pressed the tip of the blade into the back of his hand, pushing gently until a drop of bright, bright red blood welled up. The Psionic stared, wide-eyed and completely taken aback, as he dragged the blade across his skin, until there was a small, bloody X covering the back of his hand.

“There,” he said, holding it up and smiling widely. “That’ll scar good.” He giggled.

“You—” the Psionic stammered, “…your…your _blood_ ….”

Carmine nodded, his expression gone completely serious. “Rosa told me never to tell anybody ever, ever, _ever_. She says nobody in the whole world has blood my color. But…I trust you, Psionic.” He grinned, and it wasn’t a child’s grin. “I _want_ to tell you.”

“That’s why…that must be why you’re out here all by yourself,” the Psionic said, still completely floored by this revelation. “Why you don’t have a lusus.”

Carmine frowned. “I _do_ have a lusus,” he insisted. “Rosa’s my lusus.”

The Psionic shut his mouth, instantly ashamed, catching himself before he said something he’d regret. Of course—of course, he had almost just ruined everything. Hadn’t Carmine and the Dolorosa done so much for him already? Hadn’t Carmine accepted _him_ fully, despite knowing nothing, knowing that they’d never see each other again, not really?

“I—…I know,” the Psionic said hurriedly. “I’m thorry. Thorry, Carmine. I was just…just surprised, is all,” he added with a small laugh. “I’ve never seen that color.”

Carmine wiped off the excess blood with his swathes of gray clothing and smiled. “Well yeah you have!” he insisted, and pointed. “One of your eyes is that color, Psionic!”

The Psionic blinked, then grinned, and then giggled. He laughed, and Carmine laughed too, and suddenly it was like everything was so ridiculous, everything made so much sense and none at all. They laughed until they forgot why they were laughing, forgot why anybody cared about blood or colors or hemospectrums or anything.

“Hey,” the Psionic said in between fading giggles, “hey give me one of those too.” He held out his hand.

“Okay,” Carmine replied, taking the Psionic’s wrist in hand and wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Same thing?”

The Psionic nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, same thing.”

So Carmine pushed the tip of the sickle down on the back of the Psionic’s hand until the yellow blood flowed freely, mixing in with the smear of red that had been left on the blade. He scratched another crude X onto the Psionic’s hand, wiped away the excess blood when he was finished.

“There,” Carmine said, admiring his work. “Now maybe your trainer will think you really _were_ out in the desert all by yourself.”

“Hah,” the Psionic laughed, holding up his hand to see the new scar. “Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a picture! Drawn by the very talented artist that goes by airred on tumblr, go see it here! http://airred.tumblr.com/post/12730702690/i-made-a-draw-guys-primary-colors-is-the-cutest


	4. Matesprits

The Psionic dreaded waking up the next night. It was going to be his last night. He’d have to make it back to the training facility by tomorrow. And then come up with some way to tell his trainer that he hadn’t actually completed his task.

But what could he say? He couldn’t possibly say the truth. Couldn’t possibly mention that he’d met a wriggler who had an adult for a lusus, much less the fact that that wriggler had a blood color possessed by no other troll on Alternia. No, there’d have to be absolutely no talk of Carmine or the Dolorosa at all. The Psionic would have to come up with something else. Some other reason why he’d failed the training exercise.

Not surprisingly, Carmine was distracted all day long. He and the Psionic went out into the desert to overturn rocks and search for some medicinal plants for the Dolorosa, but the trip was mostly silent. Anytime Carmine had something to say he only muttered it half-heartedly, and most of the time the Psionic couldn’t even hear him. When the baskets were full and they were ready to return to the hive, Carmine grabbed the Psionic’s hand as tight as he could and they walked home hand in hand.

Even the Dolorosa seemed preoccupied. All of her smiles were forced and fake. She moved around the hive like she was constantly forgetting what she was doing, and appeared to only be half-listening when Carmine spoke to her. It made the Psionic wish even harder that there was some way he could stay…some way he could even fake his death or _something_. Psionics died all the time in training. It wouldn’t be a surprise.

Or maybe it would. He was the youngest psionic of his skill level, wasn’t he? Nobody would believe he’d died on a simple survival excursion. They’d come looking for him. And they’d find him. And when they did, they’d find Carmine and the Dolorosa too.

He’d have to just pretend the whole thing had never happened. He clenched and unclenched his fists in silent frustration as he helped Carmine pull the stems off the plants. It wasn’t fair. There _had_ to be a way to see them again. There had to be.

“I wish I could send something along with you,” the Dolorosa said as she worked on the medicine. “Just some food, at least. But I suspect that would raise questions.”

The Psionic nodded distractedly.

“Are you gonna get in trouble?” Carmine asked suddenly, as if he’d been holding the question back all day and just couldn’t take it anymore. The room went uncomfortably silent.

“…I didn’t do what I was thupposed to,” the Psionic replied quietly. “I’ll get in trouble at least a little.”

“Rosa tell him he has to stay!”

The Dolorosa shook her head. “I can’t tell him to do anything, love. And they’d probably come looking for him if he doesn’t return.”

“Do you know what they’re gonna do to him, though?! Just because…just because he’s got some powers that the highbloods don’t have…did you know they killed his lusus, Rosa?”

More silence. “No,” the Dolorosa replied softly. “I didn’t know that. But it doesn’t surprise me.”

“It’s okay, Car,” the Psionic said. “It’s not gonna be…horrible.”

Carmine glared at him, not accepting that answer, not accepting the submission. “What if we all went somewhere really far away, somewhere they’d never find us—”

“Carmine,” the Dolorosa said, her voice weary but stern. “ _Stop._ ”

He shut his mouth, but was still seething, still fuming, and little red tears began to poke out from his eyes. “You don’t have to do what they say,” he told the Psionic angrily. “You could say no.”

“That’s enough,” said the Dolorosa, starting to lose her patience. “You don’t understand, Carmine. You’ve never had to live with any other trolls. You don’t know how deep the hemospectrum runs in our society.”

“So he can’t do _anything_? He can’t just decide he doesn’t want to do this anymore?”

“No, love. That’s what it means.”

That floored him. The Psionic both envied and pitied him—not in a red way, of course, he thought hurriedly—but he felt sorry for him. How could he not know how things worked? He’d be culled in a day if he ever went into a city. But at the same time, not knowing made him so…perceptive. He understood and didn’t understand all at once. How things were wrong. How things ought to be.

It was too bad that they were the things that would never change.

Carmine and the Psionic finished up their work in silence. When all the plants were de-stemmed and clean, Carmine brought the basket to the Dolorosa and set it down in front of her without a word. He turned and left the hive without saying anything, shutting the door quietly.

The Dolorosa looked at the Psionic apologetically. He just grinned at her. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her that had messed anything up. She’d raised him right; she was just raising him in the wrong world for all that.

The Psionic got up and followed Carmine out. The nubby-horned little wriggler was easy enough to find. He always went around the side of the hive to brood. He was sitting there now, leaning up against the outside wall, sort of slumped down with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He was so deep in thought it looked like it hurt.

The Psionic sat down next to him. He tried to think of something to say, but everything he thought of felt so stale and hollow.

“I don’t want to be a threshecutioner anymore,” Carmine said finally, his voice tight with restrained tears.

“Why not?” the Psionic asked.

“I don’t want to do _anything_ that trolls do.”

“But that…that was how we were thupposed to be together,” he said quietly.

“I’ll find another way,” Carmine replied with complete confidence. “But it won’t be that way. I thought about it a lot yesterday and I decided I don’t want to work for anybody that’d do stuff like that to you for no reason. But we’ll still be together someday, Psionic. I haven’t forgotten that.”

“…Okay.”

The Psionic was looking down at the ground, but he was suddenly very aware of the fact that Carmine was staring at him. Then there was the sound of Carmine moving closer and then he was right up against him, putting his arms around him and his head on the Psionic’s shoulder and hugging really, really tightly….

“I want to tell you something, Psionic,” Carmine said, as quiet as the Psionic had ever heard him.

“…Yeth?” God he hated his lisp so much.

Then there was silence. The Psionic turned his head—as much as he could, anyway, with Carmine’s tight grip—and said, “Well? What is it?”

“I’m thinking of how to say it, hold on!” Carmine retorted, his voice muffled up against the Psionic’s shoulder.

“Oh. Okay.”

Finally, Carmine drew his face away, and it was completely red, he was blushing all over. He released his tight hold on the Psionic and sat facing him, staring down at his fidgeting hands.

“I…am…” he said slowly, meticulously, “…flushed. …For you.”

Now all the blood went to the Psionic’s face, and he stared dumbly, speechless and momentarily frozen in time.

“That’s what Rosa says it’s called when two trolls really…when they want to…you know, be mate…sprits….” He trailed off, averting his eyes as his voice dwindled down to beyond a whisper.

“I don’t think I know how to be a matethprit,” the Psionic replied, restlessly twisting his hands in the oversized sleeves of his new shirt.

“I think it’s pretty easy. I mean, if you’re with the right person…I guess. I don’t really know. So…um…that’s all I wanted to tell you.” He paused, then searched the Psionic’s face for something, some sign of any reaction whatsoever.

“I…yeah,” the Psionic replied. There was a beat of silence, and then he grinned. “Yeah.”

Carmine perked up. “So…you…?”

The Psionic nodded, his smile widening. “Yeah.”

Carmine grinned back, and it was completely ear to ear. He laughed, went quiet, and then started laughing again. After that, there was another hefty pause.

“Tho…” the Psionic said, stumbling over his own tongue, “matethprits…are thupposed to kiss, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. You’re allowed to kiss your matesprit.”

They watched each other for a moment, staring the other down, and then Carmine shuffled himself closer, leaned over and kissed the Psionic on the lips.

For a second the Psionic thought his heart was going to stop. A couple feet away, a respectable-sized stone exploded into a million dusty pieces. The sound startled Carmine and he pulled away, frowning.

“Thorry,” the Psionic said. “I was, uh…it was an accident.”

“You can’t do that _every_ time,” Carmine protested. “Because I’m going to do that a lot.”

“I’ll…see what I can do.”

Carmine kissed him again, and this time he kept the psionics under control. It was warm, and kind of uncomfortable, physically, but there was no word for how it made him feel in every other way. The Psionic didn’t care then that he’d be leaving tonight, didn’t care that they might never see each other again no matter how determined Carmine was, didn’t care that he’d failed the exercise and would be getting punished upon arrival. He didn’t care about any of it. All of it was worth it, every single thing that followed this moment would be worth it, and nothing could ever make him regret it.


	5. Training

The Psionic left the hive that morning. He assured Carmine and the Dolorosa that the sun would not be a problem, as he didn’t have far to go, and he had learned a psionic trick to keep himself from being burned. Carmine didn’t really look as though he believed him.

He had to leave the shirt behind, as they all knew he’d have to. He wouldn’t risk bringing any evidence of their existence back to the facility with him. It was the least he could do for them, who had done so much for him.

“You never did tell me your real name,” Carmine said, pouting as the Psionic was preparing to leave.

The Psionic shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter what it is. I like what you call me.”

“How am I supposed to find you with a name like that, though? You said there are thousands of psionics in the world.”

He thought a moment. He searched the ground outside the hive, locating a small stick. He bent down and began to scratch something in the dirt. Carmine watched him intently, peering suspiciously at the letters as the Psionic wrote.

“…Wiioniic?” he said, frowning.

“Noooo,” he replied. He pointed at the first letter, an odd forked-shape symbol Carmine had never seen before. “That’s a special letter. You pronounce it ‘psi.’ I’m going to spell my name like this from now on.”

“Why’d you put in so many I’s?”

The Psiioniic shrugged. “Looks better that way to me. Anyway, this way you’ll know which one is me.”

Carmine didn’t look at that convinced, but he shrugged, not wanting to force the issue.

Not long after, the Dolorosa came outside, handing the Psiioniic a small bag of food she’d prepared. “I couldn’t send you away with nothing,” she said. “Just make sure you finish it all before you get back, all right?”

“I will. Thank you, Rosa. I…I hope I can come back someday, but if I don’t, well…just thanks.”

The Dolorosa smiled. Carmine hugged him tight, gave him one more kiss, thought about it and then gave him another.

The Psiioniic left them, carrying his little pack of food. Carmine took a few steps forward as if he wanted to follow, just for a little bit, but thought better of it. He and the Dolorosa sat in front of the hive, watching him go until he was completely lost in the horizon, and then they stayed there, continuing to watch the empty wilderness. Carmine stared down at the Psiioniic’s name written in the dust. The wind was steadily blowing it away.

\----

When his trainer stared at him like that, it was like so much as taking a breath was breaking the rules. The much older yellow-blood was rarely loud, almost never shouted, but the way he would speak so flatly and so evenly was worse than any rage-filled tirade. There was really no way to hide anything from him. For a long time, the Psiioniic suspected that his trainer could read minds, but that was an impossibility with psionics. He learned eventually that his trainer was simply very, very good at being to tell when the Psiioniic was lying.

“So you’ve wasted four nights,” his trainer said, staring him down with solid yellow eyes. “That’s four nights of my time that you’ve wasted.”

The Psiioniic didn’t say anything. His trainer wasn’t very appreciative of a mere, “I’m sorry.” He preferred that regret be shown a little more concretely.

“Clearly you didn’t sit out there and starve. What exactly were you doing with yourself?”

“I never went out there,” the Psiioniic said, his weak, fake story already decided. “I found thome thmall town and thtayed there for four nighth.”

“Funny. You never struck me as lazy. Under normal circumstances, you do understand that I’d have to make you complete the exercise again. Only this time, it’ll be eight nights, and you’ll be working with a handicap. Namely, a broken limb, which I’d be glad to inflict upon you myself.”

The Psiioniic swallowed tightly. But his trainer didn’t move. The adult sighed heavily.

“However,” he continued, his voice softer, “these are not normal circumstances. Things changed while you were gone, little wriggler.”

He didn’t answer. He just waited.

“Seems you’ll be having an assignment sooner than we both thought.”

The Psiioniic’s eyes widened. “You mean…thomebody wanth to…hire me?”

His trainer smirked humorlessly. They both knew “hire” wasn’t quite the correct term, though it was what psionics usually called the process. “Indeed,” he replied. “And the reason I’m not so angry with you is because of who your…client is.”

“Who is it? Thomebody I know?”

His trainer nodded slowly. “Congratulations, little one. You’ve landed yourself a seatroll.”

“N-no way…really?” Was he ecstatic? Was he petrified? Who could tell?

“Yes, really. You remember Orphaner Dualscar, don’t you?”

The Psiioniic tensed up and nodded tightly. Yes, he remembered Dualscar…he came to the facility a lot, looking for a psychic troll, his standards were notoriously strict, there were so many psionics that wanted to work for him but there was always something that made them not quite good enough….

“I don’t know what you did,” his trainer was saying, “but you seem to have caught his eye. While you were away he came to place a bid on you. He said he would be back on the night you returned…he’ll be here in a few hours to speak with you.”

“But I’m not…” the Psiioniic said softly, his mind hazy and not quite grasping what was happening to him, “I’m not fully trained yet. I’m not ready.”

His trainer smirked again. “Dualscar knows as well as you and I do that your skills far exceed your age. He wants you with him as soon as possible.”

The Psiioniic couldn’t think of anything to say. His head was spinning. He couldn’t see straight. He stared down at the floor, clenching his tiny hands into fists, his thoughts darting from one subject to the other….

“Why are you shaking?” his trainer asked, genuinely curious. “I thought this was what you always wanted.”

“It…it’s…” he stammered weakly. “I don’t…I can’t thwim,” was all he could muster up, quietly, pathetically.

“Luckily I’ve taught you how to deal with that,” the yellow-blood adult replied callously. “In any case, we’ve got some time before your client arrives, so if you work quickly, you should be able to get your punishment over with before he gets here.”

The Psiioniic cringed. He almost never had the same punishment twice; he never knew what to expect. “What do I have to do?”

His trainer glared again. “I hope you were well rested on your little vacation, because you’re going to be doing drill exercises for the rest of the night.” He turned and began walking out, gesturing for the Psiioniic to follow him.

The psionic training facility was just outside of one of the larger cities on Alternia, a few miles from the ocean. It sat right in the middle of a deep canyon, mainly for the space it provided and the relative isolation. With so many psionics operating all at once in one area, being too close too a high-residency area was too much of a risk. They could break as much stuff out here as they wanted and not disturb a single highblood.

The canyon made the Psiioniic uneasy though, due to something he’d overheard from some of the older psionics a while back. Apparently, there had originally been a river here, and it had been dammed up when the facility was built. That dam was easy enough for anybody to break, should the need arise. As in, should the psionics’ numbers get too large. As in, they started getting ideas, ideas that the highbloods didn’t like. There was enough water to wipe them out in less than half an hour.

The Psiioniic tried not to think about it as he followed his trainer out towards one of the rocky walls.

“All right,” said the adult, turning to face him. “Start a loop, and I’ll add to it as you go.”

The Psiioniic nodded. It was a fairly standard exercise. Pick several rocks, of clearly varying shapes and sizes: some bigger than him, some as big as his head, some tiny pebbles that may as well be dust. The red and blue energy picked up about five of them, and he began hovering them in a circle above him. It seemed simple but it took intense concentration; with all the different weights he had to put a different amount of effort into holding up each one.

His trainer picked up another stone and threw it. The Psiioniic caught it easily, adding it to the circle. He had just barely got it in the cycle with the others when another one came, this one much bigger, and the Psiioniic dropped a few rocks in his effort to catch it. He regained himself quickly, picking up the fallen ones and adding new ones as his trainer kept throwing more and more.

He was holding up about thirty rocks in no time. Two of them were enormous boulders that would crush him if he dropped them. The strain was starting to get to him. His trainer picked up another stone, and this time tossed it directly towards his face.

The optic blasts came easily, shredding the rock before it posed any threat at all, but he stumbled in his concentration and the circle of stones above him started to shed bits of rubble. Before he could pick them back up, his trainer was throwing two more at him, and with every surge of energy he sent to destroy them he dropped more and more.

“Wait—wait!” he protested futilely. “I’m messing up!”

“Then fix it,” replied his trainer, sending another stone hurtling towards the Psiioniic’s face, and this time it got him right in the side of the head. He fell, all the stones falling around him in a blinding cloud of dust.

He grit his teeth, rubbing furiously at the stinging wound that was starting to bleed now, and when the dust cleared his trainer was standing in front of him. No sympathy. No patience.

“Get up,” he said flatly. “Do it again.”

So he did. Again he started with a small circle, adding tiny and big and huge rocks to it, and again his trainer threw one thing after another at him, aiming for his face, his stomach, his knees. The Psiioniic would do well for a while, and then eventually one would hit him and he’d lose all concentration. And then he’d just have to get up and do it again, until he dodged everything.

He did it a third time, a fourth time, fifth time…on the sixth failure one of the larger stones struck him directly on the head as he fell, and he bit his tongue on impact. The blood filled up his mouth as his skull throbbed and stung, and he didn’t normally cry at injuries but _that_ one had really hurt.

“We’ve got all night,” his trainer said, not in the least bit winded. “Again.”

The Psiioniic nodded, but continued to sit there, rubbing at his head, trying to swallow down the pathetic lump in his throat before he got up.

His trainer sighed wearily. “You know, I don’t savor the idea of having to tell Orphaner Dualscar he’s wasted his time by coming for you. But there’s a lot of unsavory things about my job.”

“He’th not wathting hith time,” the Psiioniic replied with a sore tongue. He got to his feet, and he noticed all the blood and bruises on his hands. “I’m thorry, we’ve juth…never done tho many before.”

“Did you think we weren’t going to try harder things eventually? Don’t waste my time. Do it again and stop failing.”

“I’m _trying_ though,” he protested. “You’re just throwing thtuff at me, you’re not _helping_ me.”

His trainer was silent a moment, wearing an expression the Psiioniic had never seen on him before. The adult’s voice went quiet, but not in his usual way…he wasn’t angry when he spoke. “If I teach you nothing else,” he said, “I’m at least going to teach you that. That life is just like that: things coming at you that you can’t always dodge. You’ll try to protect yourself from it, but all it takes is one well-placed blow for everything else you have to come crashing down on you. And no, little one. Nobody _is_ going to help you. I’m not going to send a psionic out into the world with a lie like that in his head.”

His trainer turned and focused on a new, as-of-yet untouched boulder sitting several yards away. With some effort, he ripped the enormous thing free of the dirt, and it hung there, dripping rocks and dust and mud. “So learn to fucking _move_.”

The boulder came flying at him, too fast to even see at first, but instead of dodging as he should have, the Psiioniic grabbed it. With every ounce of psionic concentration he had in him he caught the boulder in midair, pushing back against his trainer’s energy, stumbling backwards from the weight but remaining upright nonetheless. His trainer pushed, and he pushed back, and the boulder was beginning to crack from the enormous psionic pressure on both sides.

The Psiioniic held his breath, tensed every muscle in his body, and flared his psionics. The boulder popped, exploding into a million pieces of pebbles and red and blue sparks. The Psiioniic’s knees buckled, but he caught himself before going down. He stayed on his feet. For the first time ever his trainer looked like he was impressed.

 _I’m not going to believe that,_ the Psiioniic thought, catching his breath. _I’m not going to believe that nobody cares._ The memory of Carmine’s huge grin flashed into his head, and the Psiioniic smiled despite himself.

There was the sound of crunching footsteps behind him. The Psiioniic turned, smile still big on his face from the adrenaline rush…but it quickly faded. The endorphins died and washed completely out of him.

An adult seatroll with two long, unsightly scars across his face was approaching, grinning with a mouth of gleamless shark teeth.

“Impressive show for one so young,” he said, with some drawling accent the Psiioniic couldn’t quite place. The seatroll looked down at him and patted him on the head with a rough, sea-worn hand.

“So this is my little psionic, huh?”


	6. Dreams & Nightmares

The Dolorosa couldn’t bear to see her wriggler acting this way.

She’d been expecting him to be upset after the Psiioniic’s departure, but it was starting to worry her how badly he was taking it. He just picked at his food now, where before she had had to remind him to stop and breathe in between mouthfuls. He didn’t complain about chores nearly as much. He still did them with the same degree of childish sloppiness, but it was an odd, worrying experience for the Dolorosa, not having any rebelliousness to deal with.

Carmine’s feelings for the Psiioniic had been no secret to her. She had known it from the beginning, from the sheer infatuation in his eyes in the way he looked at the yellow-blooded troll. And how could anyone be surprised? The Psiioniic was the first troll he’d met besides the Dolorosa, his same age and everything. Of course their friendship would be special. The Dolorosa only wished that Carmine could really grasp the possibility that he might truly never again see the little matesprit he adored so much.

She didn’t want to believe it any more than he’d want to hear it. But Carmine couldn’t—he just _couldn’t_ —ever really be a part of troll society. She’d lived her life in the caverns. She’d seen grubs culled for so much less than having mutant blood. She’d seen a redblood grub put down for being born with only one horn.

She only hoped she’d hadn’t made the wrong decision by deciding to give him a chance at life. Only hoped that her show of compassion wasn’t truly a death sentence in disguise.

It was raining tonight. It had been raining since that morning, and showed no signs of letting up. The Dolorosa pulled thread mechanically through cloth, sighing under her breath as it twisted and snagged. Carmine was on the floor, laying atop the Psiioniic’s yellow shirt on his stomach. He dragged colored pieces of chalk over paper, making meaningless designs, staring with no readable thoughts.

The Dolorosa looked up at him occasionally. He was so quiet. It was worrisome, to say the least. She noticed that he was drawing signs, a sloppy rendition of her own elegant symbol, and the Psiioniic’s, though his appeared on the paper much more often than hers.

“Rosa,” Carmine said finally, cutting through the soft silence in the room.

“Yes, love?”

“How come I don’t have a sign?”

“You weren’t given one, sweetness.”

He paused. “What would happen if I met other trolls? If they saw what color blood I had?”

The Dolorosa felt her heart seize up a bit. “…Why are you asking me this, Carmine?”

“I just don’t get it.” He frowned, concentrating deeply. “It’s so stupid. Something like color. Acting like one is more important than another. Why is it like that?”

She sighed wearily. “You ask such heavy questions for a little one. Unfortunately, it’s one your all-knowing lusus can’t answer.”

His frown only deepened. He crossed his arms on the floor in front of him and rested his chin on them, staring at the shapes and patterns he’d scribbled. The rain outside was making a steady, soothing white noise. The Dolorosa continued her sewing. There was a small fire going in their fireplace, a light warmth permeating the room. Carmine felt his eyelids growing heavy. When the Dolorosa looked up again her little wriggler was asleep.

\----

It didn’t really feel like a dream…it was more like a memory. And not a memory of images; he didn’t see things, not really. He remembered feelings, sensations, emotions he once had. People he once cared about. People that once cared about him. Little things. Pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t quite fit together yet, making a picture he didn’t know.

It was the same, but different, as it was now. It was…this place. It was Alternia. But a different one. A dead one? One not yet born?

\----

Carmine jerked awake, crying out as though he’d been stung, leaping up from the floor and startling the Dolorosa.

“Are you all right?” the Dolorosa asked hurriedly, almost throwing her embroidery onto the table beside her and rushing to his side. “What’s the matter?”

Carmine looked around, at first not sure of where he was, not quite remembering that he’d fallen asleep, but then it came back…it all came back.

“Rosa,” he said breathlessly, feeling an excited heat rise to his face. “Rosa I just had a dream.”

She knelt down on the floor beside him, rubbing his back gently. “A bad dream? Do you want to tell me about it?”

He shook his head vigorously. “No, no, it wasn’t a bad dream, Rosa, it was…I saw something else.” The smile was huge on his face. “It was so pretty.”

The Dolorosa frowned, not understanding. “Are you feeling all right, Carmine? You haven’t been eating well, perhaps it’s caught up with you….”

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine, Rosa, but listen! I saw all these trolls, and I knew them all, and you were there too, Rosa, you were so happy, nobody forced you to live underground all that time and there was this other troll with big goat horns and a big smile and purple blood and he was my friend, he had purple blood but he was my _friend_ , Rosa, and the Psiioniic….” He stopped, a red blush filling his cheeks. “The Psiioniic and I were…we were together. And nobody wanted to…nobody wanted to hurt him.”

The Dolorosa was speechless. A faint jade green blush appeared across the bridge of her nose and she moved her lips as if to speak, but nothing was coming out. Carmine’s smile just got bigger.

“It was real, Rosa. It was _real_ ,” he insisted. He hugged her tightly, burying his face in her chest. The Dolorosa hugged him back, absentmindedly running her hand up and down his back, finding his words surprisingly difficult to comprehend. Surely they were just the ramblings of a starved, sad child…surely?

“All right, darling,” she said, talking over his continued babbling, pulling him away from her. “I think you may have come down with a little fever.”

She put the back of her hand over his forehead, and the look he gave her then broke her heart. “Rosa why don’t you believe me?” he asked. He looked as though she had betrayed him on the deepest level. “It was _real_ ,” he insisted again.

“I believe you, sweetness,” she murmured, surprising even herself. His face lit up, and she added, “I believe you had a very nice dream.” She smiled weakly.

He frowned, looking a little more satisfied with that answer, but not entirely. “Well,” he said, “if I dream it again I’ll tell you. Because you said that if you have the same dream more than once it means it’s real, right?”

Her smile brightened just a bit. “Yes, that’s right, Carmine.” She got to her feet. “I’m going to make you some of that tea you like, just in case you did come down with a little something.”

Carmine’s eyes widened with excitement. He pushed himself up onto his knees. “Will you put it in my red cup?”

“I….” She frowned pensively. “I don’t believe I remember where it was last.”

“Oh, I remember!” he said, leaping to his feet. “I left it outside.” He darted for the door before the Dolorosa could protest his going out into the cold rain.

It was just where he had left it: sitting right on the edge of the hive’s tiny porch. It had collected several inches of rainwater in it, and he overturned it as he picked it up, figuring it was as good as freshly washed now. The rain was coming down hard now, and it was already soaking his clothes. He sniffled a bit at the cool air.

He thought he heard something; footsteps, almost, like a musclebeast approaching. It wasn’t uncommon for them to come sniffing around their hive from time to time. He looked up, scanning the horizon, but it was so dark, so rainy, that even troll eyesight was obscured.

There was definitely something out there. He squinted, trying to make it out, and there were definitely more than just one musclebeast’s footsteps. Silhouettes appeared in the distance, and they…weren’t a musclebeast at all.

For an instant overwhelming glee filled him up. Was it the Psiioniic? Had he come back? But…no.

The joy faded. It wasn’t the Psiioniic. It was other trolls. Four…no, _five_ of them. They were…coming this way.

Carmine felt his heart drop into his stomach and he ran back inside.

“Rosa!” he shouted. “Rosa, there’s trolls outside, Rosa, they’re coming here!”

“ _What?_ ” she exclaimed, running in from the kitchen.

“It’s not the Psiioniic, Rosa, I know I saw trolls outside! Are they bad? Are they gonna do something to us?”

He’d never seen that look on the Dolorosa’s face before, never even when he’d broken his arm or made his way back home after being lost for a whole night. She was more than concerned. More than frightened.

The Dolorosa…was _terrified_.

“Are you sure, love?” she asked, her voice shaking faintly. “Are you _sure_?”

“Yes, yes, look outside!” Carmine pointed to the window. The Dolorosa pulled back the curtain and peered outside. It was unmistakable now. Trolls were approaching. They knew this hive was here, they were coming right for it. The troll that led them, or at least the one who appeared to be leading the group, was a tall blueblood with stringy black hair and an enormous longbow.

How could…how could they know? They’d lived here for so long without detection, how was it they found this place _now…_

She shut the curtain, steadied her voice, and turned to her young wriggler. “Carmine,” she said as calmly as possible, “get your sickle, love, and follow me.”

“What’s going on, Rosa?” he asked. The gravity of the situation wasn’t lost on him.

“Listen to your lusus, Carmine. Grab your things and come with me.”

He paused a moment, an anxious blush filled his face, and he quickly snatched up the toy sickle on the floor, along with the Psiioniic’s yellow shirt. The Dolorosa swiftly picked Carmine up in her arms just as the first heavy pounding began on the door. Holding her wriggler tightly to her chest, the Dolorosa ran out the back door, and as they stepped out into the rain the front door burst open.

They could hear the adult trolls rampaging and ransacking the hive even over the heavy rain. Trees were scarce in the wilderness, and the best place the Dolorosa could find to hide was a nearby crater, shallow enough that they could easily get out, but deep enough to keep them hidden from a cursory glance.

“Rosa,” Carmine said, his voice muffled against her, “what are they doing?”

“Hush, love,” she replied, stroking his wet hair, cradling him close as she nestled herself into the wet dirt, shielding him from the rain as best she could, ignoring the cold that was making her shiver. She could still hear the sounds of the trolls destroying their hive. Looking for them. Looking for _her_ , she was certain.

It was her fault. She really had condemned Carmine to a worse fate than simple culling, the moment her heart took pity on him and she sentenced him to life as a mutant on Alternia. She knew leaving the breeding caverns was a criminal offense. Letting a mutated grub live was another…and even going so far as to _raise_ that grub…if they ever found her again, they’d kill her. The Dolorosa had always known that. She’d always accepted that. But Carmine, her little red wriggler…where was his choice? He hadn’t resigned to this. He didn’t ask for it. He didn’t deserve to share the consequences of her actions.

Her arms around him were shaking, from cold, from fear, from her restrained tears. The voices of the trolls were getting louder; they were outside now, looking for them. To see if they’d tried to escape. To finish the job.

The Dolorosa smelled smoke. They couldn’t set the outside of the hive on fire with the rain, but the inside would burn just as well. If they had been hiding anywhere inside, the flames would have driven them out.

“Rosa…” Carmine said, pressing himself harder into her, whining with apprehension. “They’re gonna kill us.”

“Shhh,” she told him, stroking his head. “Don’t listen to them. Listen to me. Listen to your lusus. Remember all the constellations in the stars I taught you?”

He paused. “I…sort of….”

“Which ones do you remember?”

He sniffled, starting to shiver. “Th-there’s that…the hoofbeast one.”

She nodded. “Mm-hmm.” She kissed the top of his head, still struggling to keep her voice steady. “Which others?”

“And one with…the…it looks like that quadrant thingy. The ashen one.”

“And which one is your lusus’ favorite?” she asked quietly.

“The needle.” He giggled. “You like the needle-shaped one, Rosa.”

The trolls were continuing to patrol the area, their voices apparent but indistinguishable. The smell of smoke hung heavier in the air. Finally, impossibly, the sounds of their footsteps grew fainter, and their voices began to fade. They were actually leaving. The trolls were going away.

Maybe it had never been their intention to cull anybody. Maybe they were just out for a night of mayhem, mindless destruction and violence to sate them until next time. The rain continued, but it too was disappearing. The Dolorosa and Carmine stayed in the crater until everything was quiet, until the whole world had gone silent and not even a breath of wind was moving across the desert.

Eventually, the Dolorosa got to her feet. She picked Carmine up and lifted him out of the crater first, then dragged herself out. She and her little wriggler anxiously went back towards the hive.

The exterior was largely undamaged due to the rain, but the inside was completely blackened and ravaged by the smoke and fire. The Dolorosa peered in through the windows. There was nothing to salvage. They had had no valuables, nothing but what they needed to survive. The trolls had probably found nothing worth their attention, and destroyed the rest.

The Dolorosa took Carmine by the hand and began to lead him away.

“Where do we go now, Rosa?” he asked, his voice tiny.

“Somewhere else,” she replied, suddenly so tired she felt she could lay down and die. “We have to go somewhere else, love.”

He didn’t ask her any more questions. He clutched her hand tighter, swallowed hard, and held his sickle and the Psiioniic’s shirt close to him. They both walked out into the wilderness, heading nowhere, having nowhere to go.

 _I did this to you,_ was all the Dolorosa could think. She couldn’t look at Carmine. She wouldn’t have her wriggler see her cry. _I’m so sorry._


	7. Aimless

It was a miserable day. The Dolorosa was able to find a small cave for them to sleep in through the sunlight, but neither one of them slept well. She still didn’t know where they were going to go. Salvaging the old hive was out of the question; if trolls had found them there once, they would find them again. They’d have to come up with something else. Perhaps someplace a little better hidden.

They awoke—or at the very least, got up—when the moon rose again. The Dolorosa could tell Carmine was hungry, but her wriggler didn’t complain nonetheless.

When the Dolorosa took Carmine away all those sweeps ago, she’d found the hive they would eventually live in abandoned. It had evidently been the home of a recently culled troll, and since there was no trace of any other trolls around, she had taken up residence in it. In all truth, she had gotten lucky. She doubted she’d find another such isolated place again, certainly not before they both starved to death.

A cave would have to do for now. They found another their second night, and it was a bit more spacious. Carmine slept snuggled up close to her, using the Psiioniic’s shirt as a pillow. He sometimes mumbled the name in his brief fits of sleep.

The Dolorosa was just beginning to drift off herself when Carmine jerked awake next to her, and tugged on her sleeve.

“Rosa,” he said quietly, breathlessly. “I had the dream again.”

“…What dream, love?”

“The one with—the good one, you remember!”

It came back to her. In all the insanity, she had forgotten all about it. “Oh…right.”

“I saw the Psiioniic again.” He grinned, but then his face fell. “I miss him, Rosa.”

She stroked the top of his head. “I know you do, love.”

“I think…we should try to find him. I’m getting a bad feeling when I think about him. I’m not sure he’s all right.”

“We don’t know where he went, Carmine. It’s dangerous. And what do you even plan to do if you found the place he’s at?” She kissed him on the forehead. “A troll is very different prey than a musclebeast.”

He frowned. “I know, but…I still want to see him. I have to tell him about my dream, Rosa. I have to tell him he was in it.”

She tried to hide her heavy sigh. She was finding fewer and fewer ways to answer him these days.

“You know about Alternia,” Carmine insisted, looking her straight in the eye. “You know where things are. Where do psionics train? Is there one place they all go?”

 _Don’t indulge him,_ she told herself. _You know he’ll go through with it._

“Come on, Rosa, I know you know,” he said, sitting up. “I won’t do anything stupid. If it was me that was gone, wouldn’t you want to try to find me?”

“That’s different,” she said, sitting up as well. “I’m a fully grown troll, with a blood color that people recognize, even if some disrespect it. You are my tiny little wriggler, with a blood color that will get you culled, Carmine. Do you understand what I mean?”

“But nobody can see my blood!” He held out his arms from his sides. “I’m just gray all over, Rosa, nobody can tell! You could just make up a symbol to put on my shirt here, make up some color for it too.”

“Lying about your blood color is a crime, little one.”

He threw his arms down, frowning, gritting his teeth in frustration. He looked as though one more mention of the word “color” would send him into a rampage. He leapt to his feet and grabbed his sickle. “If you’re not gonna help me I’ll find him by myself!”

The Dolorosa reached out and grabbed Carmine by the arm, startling him with her sudden forcefulness. Gently, she pulled him back towards him, and sat him down on the cavern floor. That was it. He needed to hear this.

“Carmine,” she said firmly, steadily, “listen to me. You are not going to see the Psiioniic again.”

His eyes widened and his mouth opened as he tried to protest, but she just shook her head and spoke over him.

“You live a very different life from him. You won’t see him again.”

“But I _promised!_ ” Carmine exclaimed, his little eyes beginning to fill up with tears. “I promised him we’d be together again, Rosa, if I break my promise he’ll hate me! Don’t you get it? He’ll _hate_ me!”

“No, he won’t, darling, he’ll understand,” she said, her voice going soft.

“No, _no_!” Carmine insisted. “We’re _matesprits_ , Rosa, I _told_ him I’d find him again, I’m not gonna be a liar! I meant it when I said that!”

He stared at the Dolorosa as his eyes filled up with bright red tears, waiting for her to say something, hoping that she would just say she was wrong, but the Dolorosa didn’t say anything at all. She couldn’t. She just looked at him, her sad little wriggler whose heart was breaking right in front of her eyes, and she couldn’t do anything to fix it.

Carmine buried his face in her chest and started crying. She just hugged him, running her hand up and down his back. She knew he was angry with her for saying such things. But she wasn’t going to give him false hope. She certainly wasn’t going to tell him something that would make him run to his death.

“I’m sorry, love,” she said. “I wish things could be like they are in your dream. I really do.”

Even when Carmine had been a grub, he was absolutely deafening when he cried. Once he got older, and started to fake it when he was upset, it would always be one of the loudest noises the Dolorosa had ever heard, and she still couldn’t believe such a sound could come out of one so little. True, he was a bit overdramatic at times, but that was because he just _felt_ everything so deeply. Nothing was ever halfway with him. Anything he liked, he liked intensely. Anything he hated, he hated with the greatest passion.

So she let him cry as loud as he wanted, she let him beat his tiny fists against her in futile frustration, let him completely ruin the front of her dress with his tears.

It took a while, but eventually he ran out of energy. His wails became quieter, and he slumped against her, all his anger spent. He sniffled, and stopped making such noise, and then it was silent in the cave.

“What if I wait until I’m big?” he asked, his voice ruined and tired. “When I’m stronger. What if it takes me ten sweeps to find him again?”

“It may come to that,” she admitted. “But ten sweeps is a long time, love.”

“…Do you think he’d still like me after that long?”

“Nobody can say for certain, Carmine. But a matespritship is something that’s determined by fate. If you’re really meant to be together, then you will be, one day.”

That seemed to reassure him. He pulled his face away, his eyes wet and red and his whole face flushed from crying. He rubbed at his eyes with his arm, and smiled weakly at the Dolorosa. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll find him. I just…hope he doesn’t mind waiting.”


	8. Never Forget

There was a new sound from outside the cave. Footsteps. Something being dragged along the ground. The Dolorosa felt her heart stop. If it was another troll, another blueblood like from the other night…they were absolutely trapped here. Instinctively she reached out and pulled Carmine close to her. A tiny silhouette appeared at the front of the cave, dragging what looked like a musclebeast carcass behind it.

“Hey!” came a female voice, a wriggler’s voice. Not the kind of voice the Dolorosa had been expecting. “You’re in my spot!”

The stranger walked into the cave. It was a young troll, not much older than Carmine or the Psiioniic. She frowned at them, dragging the dead musclebeast into the cave, and dropped it heavily to the floor. The Dolorosa could tell she was a greenblood from the flush of exertion on her face.

“This is _my_ cave,” she declared. “What are you doing here?” She peered at them suspiciously. “Are you here to cull me?”

“No, little one, quite the opposite,” the Dolorosa said, relaxing her grip on Carmine a bit. “We’ve just escaped culling ourselves.”

“Oh,” said the little troll. She sat down on the ground, her leonine hair absolutely everywhere. “I didn’t really think so. You don’t look like bad trolls to me.” She began tearing up the musclebeast with her bare claws, pulling out handfuls of fresh meat and chewing them up.

Carmine stared at her with fascination, and then to the musclebeast which, even dead raw, looked delicious.

“Do you want some?” she asked, holding out a bloody handful. “I can never finish it all by myself.”

Carmine looked to the Dolorosa for permission, and she shrugged, as baffled by the strange little girl as he was. He took the offered meal graciously, and even though the cold, bloody meat wasn’t nearly as good as it would have been cooked, he was on the verge of starving so he barely cared.

“Where’s your lusus?” the Dolorosa asked her, starting to feel suspicious. A little paranoia might be the difference between another night alive and imminent culling. “Why are you out here alone?”

“My lusus died in an accident,” the wriggler replied, chewing messily and licking the blood from her claws. “But it’s okay. She taught me how to survive on my own. Did you say you almost got culled?” she added, as if just remembering it.

“We had an incident,” was all the Dolorosa felt comfortable saying.

“Well, you probably don’t want to hang around here then.” The wriggler frowned. “Don’t you know how many highbloods there are around here?”

The Dolorosa’s heart skipped a beat. She looked towards the entrance to the cave, as if the subjuggulators themselves lurked just outside. “I…no. I don’t really know exactly where we are…we’ve just been wandering for the past two nights.”

Carmine looked up, his eyes wide. “Hey,” he said, “if there are a bunch of highbloods here, does that mean there’s psionics too?”

The wriggler frowned, thinking hard. “Well…not _here_. But I know where there’s lots of them. Why?”

“I’m looking for one,” Carmine said, leaning closer to her, excited. “He’s in training. Is there a place where psionics go to train?”

“Well yeah, down in the canyon,” she replied, as if that ought to be common knowledge. “It’s a couple miles away from here.”

Carmine turned to the Dolorosa, his face glowing. “Rosa, did you hear!? He’s real close, we can go there _right now_ ….”

“No,” she said. “Didn’t we just discuss this, Carmine? And didn’t you hear what she said? There’s highbloods everywhere. You’re not leaving this cave.”

He scowled. He turned away from her and back to the wriggler. “Do you know how to get there? Do you go there a lot, does anybody ever catch you?”

She grinned. “Nope,” she answered proudly. “I do whatever I want out here, nobody bothers me.”

“That’s enough of this discussion,” the Dolorosa said, with the tone she rarely used. To his credit she actually saw Carmine deflate a bit when she spoke. “You will not leave this cave.”

Carmine only pouted and ate the rest of his food in silence. The greenblooded wriggler seemed content to sit there and let them share her meal. The Dolorosa still wasn’t quite sure what to make of her…it wasn’t uncommon for wrigglers to be orphaned at young ages, and not uncommon for them to be self-sufficient either. Yet…why would this wriggler choose to stay in an area so full of dangerous highbloods?

“You guys should probably find another place to stay,” the greenblood said once the meal was winding down. “I’m just telling you because I don’t think you know, otherwise you wouldn’t have come this way. I mean, _I’m_ trying to get out of here as fast as I can and I usually don’t care about highbloods.”

“What do you mean, little one?” the Dolorosa asked, eyeing her expectantly.

“I mean,” replied the huntress, “that they’re practicing for the Blood Purge.”

The Dolorosa felt cold. She’d heard those words before. It was so long ago, she’d forgotten all about it. She hadn’t even believed it was real back then.

“What’s that?” Carmine asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.

The greenblood’s face was completely serious. “Nobody really knows about it ‘cept highbloods, and me of course because I know everything. Every hundred sweeps or so the Empress sends a bunch of threshecutioners and laughsassins and subjuggulators and stuff to go weed out all the trolls that somehow escaped culling. And they get _everybody_. That’s why none of the lowbloods know about it; they do it too well.”

Carmine stiffened. She was grinning at him, her mouth full of sharp predator’s teeth. “That’s not true,” he said. “You’re just trying to scare us.”

“It is true!” she insisted. “A bunch of patrols went out a few nights ago, I bet that’s who tried to cull you guys.”

The Dolorosa remembered hearing something about this practice before, many sweeps ago, but she had dismissed it as a mere rumor. It was the job of the cavern dwellers to ensure that…”defective” grubs did not make it to the surface. If any trolls became undesirable in their time afterward, the culling drones were swift to respond. Were there really enough trolls that escaped noticed that the Empress felt the need to do _this_?

 _Maybe not,_ she considered, feeling a bit sick. _Maybe they don’t need to do this at all. Maybe it’s just a game. Entertainment for the seatrolls and highbloods._

Carmine turned to the Dolorosa, his eyes full of fear and anger all at once. “Rosa,” he said, “trolls don’t really do stuff like that, do they?”

She didn’t have the heart to answer him.

“They don’t cull psionics when they do that, do they?” he asked, turning back to the wriggler, frantic. “What would get you culled? Could you be killed for like…having a lisp or something?”

The greenblood shrugged. “I bet you could. But I don’t think they’d kill a psionic. In fact, I know there’s a bunch of psionics leaving the training facility because bluebloods want them to _help_ with the purge.”

“He can’t!” Carmine exclaimed, fearing gripping him suddenly. He whipped back around to the Dolorosa. “They can’t make him do that!”

“Yes they can, love,” she replied, her voice tired. Why couldn’t he understand this was the way things were?

The greenblood narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you so interested in psionics, anyway?”

“My best friend is a psionic,” Carmine answered proudly. “He’s also my matesprit.”

The wriggler blushed furiously and a huge smile spread across her face. “Really!?” she exclaimed. “Did you guys get separated?” Her eyes were intensely inquisitive and she leaned forward, fully engrossed in this new revelation.

“Yeah,” Carmine replied. “I know he’s at that training facility though. But I can’t go see him because…well, it’s not a good idea. I want to, though.”

“But what if you don’t see him again?” the little huntress exclaimed, her face falling.

“I _will_ see him again,” Carmine said defiantly. “I promised him I would.”

The greenblood squealed, and Carmine regarded her quizzically.

“I’m sorry,” she said, giggling into her hand. “It’s just…it’s so cute.”

“I…guess,” Carmine replied, puzzled.

\---

 

The Psiioniic was trying not to tremble but he was failing miserably. His arm was outstretched on the table, and he couldn’t quite reach the opposite edge to grab onto so he was clenching his fist as hard as he could. Dualscar was there, watching, and the Psiioniic couldn’t look him in the eye. For the first time he could remember, he wished his trainer was there. He didn’t really feel anything for the slightly callous adult, but his trainer was the closest thing he had here to somebody who kind of gave half a damn about him.

But his trainer wasn’t there. In fact, the Psiioniic hadn’t seen him since his first night back. He hadn’t been doing any training; he’d just been with Dualscar and the teal-blood adult that ran the psionic facility, and they talked and talked and talked about adult things he couldn’t quite follow. He was able to sort of catch the fact that the teal-blood wanted Dualscar to pay all these extra fees of sorts on account of the Psiioniic being so young, but that was as much as he gathered. The rest went over his head.

But now it seemed like all that stuff was worked out, because now the Psiioniic had his sleeve rolled up and his arm stretched across the table, while the teal-blooded adult hovered over his skin with a red hot knife. About to carve Dualscar’s symbol into his arm.

There was another adult psionic—the Psiioniic had seen him before but didn’t know his name—standing behind him, holding his shoulders down. They all knew he was going to panic a bit when the iron hit his skin. He couldn’t make them mess up the sign. If he did, well…the Psiioniic would rather not find out.

So he tried not to look, but he felt the heat of the blade coming closer and his whole body tensed with anticipation. The tip cut into him, the hot metal cauterizing instantly. He yelped and would have jumped up from his seat had the other psionic not been there, and the pain didn’t get better it only got worse and worse and _worse_ ….

Dualscar was wincing, irritation all over his face. “Can’t you make him stop crying?” he asked impatiently.

Almost instantly, the Psiioniic felt the snares of the other adult’s mind inside his own, grabbing his emotions until he felt none, cutting off all feeling until he was numb. It was almost like paralysis, and almost like sedation. He didn’t like the feel of it, but his body had no will to react or respond. It only made the pain feel even worse, because now his body couldn’t contract its muscles or do what it could to react to the agony except accept it fully, raw and open and without preparation.

The Psiioniic was only about to whimper quietly as the teal-blood finished the first jagged line of Dualscar’s sign and moved on to the next one. After what felt like days, the adult finished, the other psionic released his mental and physical hold on him, and the Psiioniic bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood to keep from crying out.

The teal-blood threw a bandage over top of the new mark, saying, “You can take that off tomorrow night. Leave it there for now so you don’t get infected. Dualscar doesn’t have a use for a sick psionic.”

The Psiioniic nodded weakly. The teal-blood gathered her things and got to her feet, leaving the room without another word. The other psionic followed behind her. It was just the Psiioniic and Dualscar in the room now.

Dualscar sat down in the chair across the table from him, and regarded him with an unreadable expression.

“I’m leaving the facility tomorrow night and you’re coming with me,” he said without preamble. “Normally I’d avoid wrigglers like the fuckin’ plague but I’ve heard just how good you are. I thought it’d be a shame not to grab you up while you were still available. That said, I expect you to not look at me like I’m your fuckin’ lusus. They tell me you know how to take care of yourself, so I’m not going to do it for you.”

He paused, and the Psiioniic nodded vigorously.

“I also understand that since you’re so… _little_ …you may not have a decent understanding of what’s expected of you. So I’ll make it fairly simple for you. When I tell you to do something, there’s only one answer.” He glared at him. “And it’s ‘yes’.”

The Psiioniic nodded again, a bit more slowly this time.

Dualscar smiled. “Remember that, and we won’t have any problems. Now, do you have any questions for me?”

The Psiioniic was initially just going to shake his head no, but then he thought of something. “What am I…what do I…call you?”

Dualscar frowned. “Call me Dualscar. What the fuck else would you call me?”

“I-…I don’t know,” the Psiioniic replied, his voice quieter. “I didn’t know if I was thupposed to…call you… ‘mathter’ or thomething….”

Dualscar smirked. “That won’t be necessary, trust me. Just Dualscar is fine.” His smile widened. “You’re a good troll, aren’t you? We’re going to have a good time together, you and I. I’m already quite well-known, even in imperial circles, so I’m actually protecting you fairly well by taking you with me. And who knows? Maybe if you do well enough for me, I’ll get your teeth fixed for you so you don’t fuckin’ lisp all the coddamn time.”

The Psiioniic shut his mouth quickly, embarrassed. “I’m, uh…thorry, Dualthcar.”

Dualscar narrowed his eyes at him and the Psiioniic felt his muscles tense up. “Tell you what,” the seatroll said. “If you’re not going to say my name right, then I’d suggest you just don’t say it at all.”

“Okay,” he replied hurriedly, wracking his brain for words that didn’t have that awful ‘s’ sound. “Okay, I’m…I won’t. I won’t do it.”

“Good. Well, get up and come with me.” Dualscar stood up from the table. “I have a bit of a…test in mind for you. To ensure that you’re really the one I want. So come along, let’s go.”

Heavily suspicious, the Psiioniic did what he said, following a respectable distance at Dualscar’s heels. The seatroll led him back outside, into the dim, cool night, and out to where the Psiioniic normally practiced with his trainer. Somewhat to his surprise—and relief—his trainer was actually already there, regarding the sky as he waited for them. His expression was unreadable as always as they approached.

“So you’re all marked?” his trainer asked, his voice flat. “Ready to go with Dualscar?”

The Psiioniic nodded, and he tried to look prideful as he did so. Tried to come up with some kind of gratitude—though he wasn’t sure gratitude was quite the right word—to show his trainer, for all he’d taught him, but…he just felt empty.

“Good.” His trainer smiled one of his rare smiles, and patted him on the head. The Psiioniic was startled at the unfamiliar touch. “You’ll do well.”

“All right, Psiioniic,” Dualscar said, grabbing the little wriggler’s shoulder and pulling him back a few steps. “Here’s your test.” He leaned over him and pointed at his trainer. “Kill him.”

“ _What?!_ ” the Psiioniic all but shrieked, jumping back to stare Dualscar in the face. “What, _no_ , I can’t, he’th my…I _can’t_ —”

He saw the punch coming, saw Dualscar clench his fist and bring his many-ringed hand in to strike him hard beneath the eye. But the Psiioniic couldn’t process it fast enough, and when it connected he fell clumsily down to the ground.

“What kind of fuckin’ troll are you that you’ve never taken a life before?” Dualscar demanded. His trainer watched everything unfold impassively. The Psiioniic tried to get back up to his feet, and Dualscar shoved him down again with his heel. “You’re _mine_ now so do as I say. Get up and fuckin’ kill this troll.”

The Psiioniic wiped his eyes angrily and pushed himself up to his feet. He looked at his trainer as if he had committed the deepest betrayal. Which he probably had. “Did you know about thith?” the Psiioniic demanded tearfully. “Did you come out here tho I could kill you?”

His trainer didn’t answer right away. When he did, the words came out soft and resigned. “I’m not the one you listen to anymore. You listen to your owner. You listen to Dualscar. Do what he says.”

“I don’t _want_ to kill you,” he protested meekly.

“Stop embarrassing yourself,” his trainer snapped back. “You’re the best psionic I’ve ever trained, do you understand? Good enough that Orphaner Dualscar came here personally to hire you. I would be proud to go out this way, little one. Don’t disappoint me.”

He had never used his psionics to kill. He had only ever manipulated objects and thoughts and sometimes actions. But never…never had he hurt somebody with raw psionic energy alone. He didn’t even really know where to start.

 _Carmine…_ he thought despairingly. _Carmine I wish you were here…I don’t know what to do…._

Dualscar pulled a knife from his pocket and walked around behind the Psiioniic’s trainer. He put the blade up against the adult’s neck and stared the Psiioniic down with complete coldness.

“If I do it,” he said, “it’ll be painful, and long, and I’ll make you watch every last second of his death throes. But if you do it, it’ll be quick, and he won’t suffer. Which do you want?”

The Psiioniic flexed his fingers nervously. His trainer was still just looking at him, like he didn’t really care, like nothing about this scared him or surprised him in the least. He didn’t _want_ to die, but he just…didn’t _mind_ dying. Didn’t mind being killed. Murdered. For no good reason.

And like a flash out of nowhere, the Psiioniic was angry. How could his trainer just not care? How could any troll just _accept_ dying just so a higher-blooded troll could prove a _point_? It didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t right.

He reached out with his psionics, feeling into his trainer’s brain, feeling for pain and emotion and the vital organs of his body. And the Psiioniic _crushed_ them, all of them, imagined closing his hands around something small and fragile, that was really all it took, and his trainer began to cough, heaps of yellow blood flowing out from his mouth and his eyes and ears. The adult had not tried even in the least to resist. He had put up no walls of his own to keep the Psiioniic out. He couldn’t have made it any easier.

The Psiioniic shut his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look, so he could maybe pretend he had nothing to do with this indignity. He heard the disgusting sounds of blood pouring from his trainer’s mouth, as the older troll spit and gagged and choked. Finally, there was a telling thump, and the noises stopped. The Psiioniic opened his teary eyes warily, and beheld his trainer’s body, lying in an enormous puddle of his own yellow blood, not even so much as twitching. Dead. Murdered by his own protégée.

Murdered.

 _Murdered._ The Psiioniic had taken a life. What would Carmine say if he knew?

“You made that a bit more dramatic than it needed to be, but good work,” Dualscar said, stepping over the body without so much as glancing at it. The Psiioniic couldn’t tear his eyes away. He felt his brain breaking. He felt his resolve weakening. He was frozen, paralyzed in the moment of utter realization, and any second, any second he _knew_ he was going to break down completely….

“So let’s count how many times you broke the one rule I’ve given you,” Dualscar said, standing in front of the Psiioniic, staring down unsympathetically. Dualscar stroked his chin pensively, faking contemplation. “First you said…’no.’ Then, you said, ‘I can’t.’ Which you then said a second time. And finally, you said, ‘I don’t want to.’”

The Psiioniic couldn’t move. He was beyond panic and shock now.

“That’s…four times.” Dualscar held up four fingers. “Four times you broke the rule I told you. So that means I’ll have to punish you four times.”

As Dualscar lashed out to grab his wrist, the Psiioniic shut his eyes frantically. He felt everything crashing down around him like the circle of rocks he had once trained with. Nothing was making any sense.

“Count,” Dualscar told him, and the first slap, thick and heavy, slammed into the Psiioniic’s face.

\----

The Dolorosa and Carmine both decided that it was all right for the greenblooded huntress to stay with them that night. She may have been a bit strange, a bit feral, but there was nothing otherwise unsettling about her. And Carmine seemed to like her. They kept exchanging hunting stories, and Carmine kept trying to one-up her but it was a losing battle. She had hunted many more times than him, and had much more exciting stuff to talk about.

The two wrigglers kept talking for hours. The Dolorosa felt the exhaustion from the past few nights catching up with her, and she retreated to a dark part of the cave to lay down for a bit. She expected to only sleep for an hour or two at the most, because they would have to be leaving this cave soon.

After the Dolorosa had fallen asleep, Carmine watched her with a bit of a guilty look in his eyes.

“What’s the matter?” the huntress asked. “You look sad all of a sadden.”

He didn’t answer right away, then shook his head and turned back to face her. “Sorry, I was just…thinking about something I shouldn’t be.”

The greenblood’s eyes lit up and the green blush spread across the bridge of her nose again. “Are you thinking about your matesprit?”

“I think about him a lot,” Carmine replied matter-of-factly. “All the time, really.”

The huntress frowned, looking over at the Dolorosa. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You know…if you really want to go see him, I can bring you to the facility. You can’t go in or anything. We’ll be real careful.”

Carmine frowned, his convictions torn. “Rosa would kill me if I left the cave. She’d be so angry at me, even if I came back okay. …What if she got so mad she just left me here by myself, and stopped loving me?”

“I don’t think lususes _can_ stop loving their grubs. Not even if they get really, really angry.”

“Still,” he insisted. “I really want to see the Psiioniic, like…more than anything I want to, but…Rosa is just trying to protect me when she says I can’t. What if I died? Just thinking about how sad that would make her makes me want to cry, almost.”

“But you won’t die,” replied the huntress. “You’ll be with me. Nobody’s ever caught me before, never ever.”

Carmine looked at her, seriously considering it for a moment, then shook his head vigorously. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. I love the Psiioniic but I love Rosa too, and right now I’m keeping my promise to her.”

The huntress’s face fell, her expression full of bitter disappointment. She stared at the cave floor, then her eyes lit up again. She reached out and snatched the Psiioniic’s shirt where Carmine had left it bunched up, and darted out of the cave.

“Hey!” Carmine exclaimed. His shout startled the Dolorosa into waking, and she sat up slowly, blinking lethargically, turning her head just in time to see her wriggler run full speed out into the night.

“Give it back!” Carmine shouted, running as fast as he could to keep up with the giggling huntress. She held the Psiioniic’s yellow shirt out behind her like a standard, taunting and beckoning Carmine to follow.

“You’ll thank me!” she called back, continuing to run. “Come on, I know where he is!”

Carmine grit his teeth and willed himself to run faster, panicking that he might lose sight of her in the dark, and ignored his burning lungs as he followed her across the wilderness. Somewhere behind him he thought he heard the Dolorosa calling his name, but he didn’t have time to turn back and check. So he chased the huntress, and Rosa chased him, and the three of them ran for miles across the abandoned desert.

For hours, it felt like, they followed one another. The huntress would occasionally stop and look back, giving Carmine the chance to catch up just a little, and then off she went again. He never got even near close enough to be able to grab the shirt back.

Finally, she stopped, and just turned and waited for them to catch up with her. Furious, Carmine tackled her, knocking her over as he ran into her, and wrenched the shirt from her hands while she giggled, unfazed.

“Why would you do that!?” he demanded as the Dolorosa came up behind them, panting heavily. “This is _mine_!”

“Look,” she replied, pointing towards her left.

Carmine turned, and all he saw was the edge of a huge canyon. He scowled and got off of her, clutching the shirt frantically to him. “What, were you gonna throw it in there or something!?”

“Noooo,” she insisted, standing and brushing the dirt from her clothes. “Remember, I told you this is where the psionics train. Right down in there, go look!”

Carmine felt some of the rage evaporate as he suddenly remembered. He turned, gazing down towards the canyon again, and anxiously approached the edge.

“Carmine,” said the Dolorosa breathlessly, “be careful.”

But he barely heard her. There it was, there it _was_ , the psionic training facility and that was where the Psiioniic was, he was so close, he was _right there_ ….

“How do I get down there?” Carmine asked frantically, whirling around. “How do I get there?”

The huntress blinked, perplexed. “Well…you don’t. I don’t even go down there. You’d get culled on sight. I told you that if I brought you here you couldn’t go in.”

“How’s he gonna know I’m here?!” Carmine shouted. “How’s he gonna….” Frustrated, he looked up and down the canyon’s edge, searching for a place he could climb down.

“Carmine, no,” said the Dolorosa, grabbing his arm gently. “Please. Listen to your lusus.”

She sounded so scared, like he was going to die if she so much as took her eyes off him, and for an instant it gave Carmine pause. He turned and looked her right in her jade green eyes, and he swallowed tightly.

“Rosa, please,” he said. “I want to try to save him. If he’s with us…if he’s with us then he can help keep us safe, Rosa. He’s so strong. Nobody could hurt us if he was with us. And I wouldn’t let anybody hurt him.”

“And how do you plan on doing that, love?” the Dolorosa asked wearily. “Look at you, so little.”

Carmine frowned at her. Without warning, and without another word, he turned and ran for the edge of the canyon, and began to climb down onto the ledges beneath.

“ _Carmine!_ ” the Dolorosa shouted, cold fear gripping her. By the time she ran to the canyon’s ledge, Carmine was already climbing further down past the point where she could follow.

“Carmine, come _back_ here!” she pleaded. “Please, love, _please_ , if they see you…if they…Carmine, please come back!!”

Carmine didn’t want to ignore her wishes, he knew that she was concerned for all the right reasons, but…the Psiioniic was right here. Carmine didn’t know if he’d ever get such a chance again. He had to try. If nothing else, he had to try. He’d do whatever it took later to tell Rosa how sorry he was, but for now, all he could think about was the Psiioniic.

It wasn’t a _very_ deep canyon, but deep enough for the descent to take him the better part of an hour. He tried to ignore the bruises and cuts he was getting, tried to wipe the blood away as best he could, but it wasn’t his concern at the moment. He knew it ought to be, but…anytime he thought of the Psiioniic, everything else seemed inconsequential.

Finally, he reached the bottom. The actual building of the training facility was several yards away. Where Carmine had landed, there were several large boulders for him to hide behind, and he shrunk himself up them, peering out at the seemingly empty wasteland of the canyon.

He heard footsteps. His ears pricked up, and he clutched his toy sickle tighter, burying himself further behind the rock. They were small footsteps, shuffling sort of listlessly. A small thud, and then the sound of intensely muffled crying.

Curious, Carmine peeked out around the other side of the boulder. There, curled up into a tiny ball, was his Psiioniic, his matesprit and best friend…crying. Carmine reached out with one hand and tapped him on the arm.

The Psiioniic flinched violently, recoiling as his head whipped up. He turned, and Carmine smiled at him, waving for him to come behind the rock with him. The Psiioniic narrowed his eyes, not quite believing it. Carmine grinned at him wider, and without a word the Psiioniic got up and ran around the back of the rock, throwing himself into Carmine’s arms.

The Psiioniic was trying to say something through his tears, but it all came out as incoherent nonsense. Carmine just held him as tightly as he could, deciding that he wasn’t ever going to let go, there was no way he was leaving this spot right here. He didn’t know why the Psiioniic was crying. But he just kept holding on, patting his back like Rosa did when he was upset. Every time the Psiioniic sobbed out, his body shook and vibrated against Carmine’s own. It was an unsettling sensation.

“How’d you get here?” the Psiioniic asked once his voice was calm enough to understand.

“I was supposed to find you,” Carmine replied with one of his huge smiles. The Psiioniic lifted his tearstained face to look at him, and Carmine roughly scrubbed away his yellow tears, then kissed him on the cheek. “It doesn’t matter how I got here, does it?”

“No…” the Psiioniic replied, wiping his eyes. “No, I gueth it doesn’t….”

Now that he could see the Psiioniic’s face clearly, Carmine frowned. One of his eyes—the red one, the really pretty red one—was bruised and swelling. There were small cuts all over his left cheek, and more little bruises dotting his skin.

“What happened?” Carmine asked, reaching out to touch the blackened eye gently.

The Psiioniic sniffled, a faint yellow blush in his cheeks. “I got in trouble.”

“For what? It wasn’t ‘cause of me, was it?” he asked fearfully.

The yellow-blood shook his head. “No, no…it was ‘cause…well…okay, a lot’s happened since I came back and I don’t know how to deal with any of it….”

“You can tell me about it. Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t.” He sniffled again. “But…I’m just…I’m really glad you’re here…I really, really wanted to see you and I didn’t think I could just walk out here and find you, but I did, and now….” He paused, staring at the ground. “Now it kinda feels like things could be okay again, but I know they won’t be….” He leaned forward back into Carmine’s embrace, tiredly wrapping his arms around him. “I just want to stay right here.”

“But I came to get you,” Carmine told him. “I came down here so you could come back with me.”

“I can’t,” the Psiioniic replied, his voice muted. “I have an owner now and if I leave he’ll kill me.”

“An owner?” Carmine repeated. He took the Psiioniic by the shoulders and pulled him away, looking in him in the face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I work for a seatroll now. His name is Dualscar and he’s…well…I don’t really like him but he wanted _me_ specifically so I should be honored.”

Carmine scowled at that. “That’s stupid. Nobody owns you. You’re not a thing, Psiioniic.”

“I’m his, though. And I’ve got…I’ve got proof, right here….” He trailed off, pulling up his sleeve and showing Carmine the pulsing yellow jagged scars that marked him as Dualscar’s. Carmine’s eyes filled with rage to see it.

“After they did this,” the Psiioniic continued, “he brought me outside and he made me kill my trainer. I didn’t really like him either but I would never want to _kill_ him, and he just let me, but then Dualscar still got mad and he hit me….” The Psiioniic had never talked so much before, but everything was just spilling out of him as he almost rambled. Carmine knew why he was doing that. Nobody else was around to listen to him.

“That’s what this is from?” Carmine asked, running his hand over the bruises on the Psiioniic’s face. He nodded.

“He said it was a test…he said I had to kill my trainer, because he had to make sure I could….”

Carmine’s eyes widened. They really _were_ going to use the Psiioniic for the purge…that had to be the reason for it. This seatroll was going to make the Psiioniic kill other trolls, probably hundreds….

“I want to tell you something, Psiioniic,” Carmine said, grabbing onto his hand and holding it tightly. “I’ve been having this really nice dream a lot. You’re in it.”

The Psiioniic rubbed his eyes and just watched him, listening.

“It’s about Alternia…or at least, I think it is. It’s about a different Alternia, a nicer one, where nobody cares about blood color and stuff like that…I think it’s the way things used to be. And in the dream, you and I are together.”

“It’s just a dream though,” the Psiioniic replied. “They’re not real.”

“…Then I’ll make it real.” Carmine said the words with complete conviction as he stared down at their entwined hands, both bearing the same crudely etched scar. “I can’t really…I can’t really explain it with words, but I know, I just _know_ that things don’t have to be the way they are. Alternia worked that way once. Why can’t it work like that again?”

The Psiioniic smiled tearfully. “That’d be nice.” He snuggled up closer and Carmine felt himself start blushing. He held on to the Psiioniic tighter and couldn’t imagine letting go. If he could pick him up and climb back up the canyon wall right now, he’d do it. But something was telling him that this little hidden alcove would be the last place he’d see the Psiioniic for a long, long time….

“Hey listen,” he said seriously. The Psiioniic’s body was starting to feel heavy against him. “You can’t forget about me, all right? You can’t ever think that I’m going to forget about you.”

“I know,” the Psiioniic mumbled. “I won’t.”

For some reason, it didn’t ease Carmine’s mind. No matter how much he wished it, he knew that the Psiioniic wouldn’t be coming with him tonight. He knew he’d have to leave the canyon, leave his friend in a place surrounded by trolls who didn’t care if they hurt him or not. Matesprits were supposed to protect each other. They were supposed to love each other. And Carmine wouldn’t be able to.

The thought dropped on him like an avalanche. When he left, there would be other trolls _hurting his matesprit._ And Carmine would know it was happening but not be able to do anything.

For the first time, he understood what it meant to be powerless. So he held on to the Psiioniic, let the tired little troll doze off against him, and loved him, and hated the Alternia that wasn’t his dream, hated blood and hated colors.


	9. Higher Calling

Carmine didn’t have the heart to wake the Psiioniic, nor did he particularly want to move from this perfect spot, but he began to hear other trolls out in the canyon. He patted the Psiioniic on the shoulder softly but urgently.

“Hmm?” he asked, easily snapping awake.

“I think they’re looking for you out there,” Carmine replied, gently pushing the Psiioniic up.

“…Oh.” The Psiioniic sat back on his heels and rubbed his eyes sleepily. “Yeah. I’ve gotta go now.”

“Do you know where you’re going?” Carmine asked, dropping his voice to a whisper and grabbing onto the Psiioniic’s hand.

The yellow-blood shrugged. “With Dualscar,” he replied lethargically. “I don’t know where that is, exactly.”

Carmine frowned, appearing to consider something. The sounds of the trolls were getting louder. The Psiioniic peeked nervously over his shoulder.

“You need to leave,” he said, getting to his feet. He looked up the canyon wall. “I think I can lift you back up there.”

“We’ll both go,” Carmine replied, standing up. He still hadn’t let go of the Psiioniic’s hand. The Psiioniic only smiled at him sadly. “Come on, if you can fly me all the way up to the top, then you can take us both up, right?”

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” was all the Psiioniic had to say. “Dualscar would be really mad. He’d come looking for me.”

“Then—” Carmine racked his brain for something to say, but he was cut off as the Psiioniic leaned forward and embraced him in a deep hug. Carmine hugged him back as tightly as he could, full of warmth and blushing hard enough to make his head spin. Eventually, disappointingly, the embrace ended, and as the voices of approaching trolls got louder, the Psiioniic gave Carmine a tiny, shy little kiss on the lips.

Carmine put his hands on either side of the Psiioniic’s face and kissed him deeper.

When it ended, the Psiioniic’s face was entirely yellow. He grinned. “Your dream sounds really nice,” he said. “I hope you can make it real.”

Before Carmine could say anything else, he felt a fuzzy, tickling sensation surrounding him from all sides, and then he was lifted off the ground and shot speedily into the air. He flew up the canyon wall, propelled by the Psiioniic’s red-and-blue energy, watching his matesprit shrink into a smaller and smaller yellow figure beneath him.

He flew up over the edge of the canyon, and the Dolorosa’s arms were there immediately to catch him. She clutched him tight against her, so tight he could barely breathe, saying over and over, “Carmine, my sweet little grub, don’t you ever do that again, don’t you ever run away from me again….”

He tried to wrench himself away from her so he could look down at the Psiioniic, see where he was going, if he was all right, but he couldn’t free from himself from her tight grip.

“Well?” asked the little greenblood wriggler excitedly. “Did you see him?”

The Dolorosa released Carmine just a little. “Yeah…” he replied pensively. “Yeah, I saw him.”

“How was he?” the Dolorosa asked, genuine concern in her eyes. “Was he all right?”

“…They’ve been hurting him,” Carmine replied lifelessly. “Rosa, I don’t understand it. He’s not a bad troll. He would never hurt anybody. So why do they…just because…Rosa I don’t _get_ it.”

She held him tighter, and he put his arms around her neck, hugging her back. “I wish I could tell you, love,” she whispered in his ear.

\---

The Psiioniic watched Carmine’s figure disappear up the canyon wall and smiled despite himself. Carmine probably hadn’t even noticed but there had been tiny smears of blood all over his hands and face, likely from climbing down the rocks. One look at him from any other troll would have gotten him culled. He still didn’t understand how dangerous it was just for him to…even exist.

He walked out from behind the rock. Dualscar was approaching, with a few other seatrolls walking a little ways behind him. Dualscar was holding something in his hands, turning it over and over absently. He grinned as the Psiioniic scurried over to meet him.

“Ah, somebody said they saw you come out here,” he said. The Psiioniic saw now that he was holding a small glass jar half-full with…something. He couldn’t quite tell, Dualscar’s palm was covering it up.

“I was just getting some air,” the Psiioniic replied. Dualscar shrugged.

“I thought I told you to get your things.” The seatroll frowned.

“I don’t really have anything. Nothing I want, anyway.”

“Ah, I see. Well, all the better. Makes things easier on me.” He turned, waving for the Psiioniic to come walk beside him. He did, somewhat reluctantly, as the other seatrolls walked behind them. He couldn’t help the feeling of being penned.

They were walking towards the path that led up to the other side of the canyon, the easiest way in and out. The training facility was several yards behind them, and the Psiioniic felt absolutely no trace of sadness at leaving the place.

“Oh, but….” Dualscar stopped abruptly, putting his hand on the Psiioniic’s shoulder, stopping the wriggler in his tracks. Dualscar held the glass jar out in front of the Psiioniic’s eyes.

“There’s…one last thing we have to take care of before we leave.”

The Psiioniic could see the jar’s contents for what it was now. Mind honey. He was familiar with the stuff. Every psionic had to try at least a drop of it in a controlled environment, just so they would know what it felt like. The Psiioniic remembered the resulting surge of energy had both invigorated and scared the hell out of him.

After a moment, it became clear that Dualscar wanted him to take it. So he did, staring at it uncomprehendingly. He glanced up at Dualscar, who was smiling smugly, as if he fancied himself the greatest genius.

“I’ve always thought that rundown old facility was a bit of an eyesore, even by landdweller architectural standards.” Dualscar took the Psiioniic by the shoulders and turned him around so he was facing the distant structure. “Don’t you agree, Psiioniic?”

“I…I gueth so…” the Psiioniic replied, hoping that was the right answer.

“I don’t think I like it.” Dualscar shrugged and sighed theatrically. “Why don’t you get it out of my sight?”

Almost robotically, because he knew he would have to do it, he knew Dualscar wanted it, the Psiioniic twisted the top off the jar. He looked down at the yellow ooze, his tongue suddenly feeling huge and dry in his mouth. He glanced up at the facility, and then to Dualscar, and back down again.

No, he wouldn’t care if this place was gone. He wouldn’t care if it stayed where it was, either. He simply felt _nothing_ for it. It had been his home for the past sweep and a half or so, but it had never been more than a place he slept, ate, woke, and trained.

But he wasn’t a murderer. Or at least, he didn’t _think_ he was a murderer. He still hadn’t forgotten the sight of his trainer’s dead body, put there on the ground by the Psiioniic himself. Still wasn’t sure how he felt about it. But to do this…there were hundreds of psionic trolls inside, hundreds who had never done anything to hurt anybody else or deserved to die because of Dualscar.

Or maybe there was some other reason why Dualscar wanted him to do it that the Psiioniic didn’t—or couldn’t—understand. The Psiioniic was just a wriggler himself, wasn’t he? Why would a lowblood wriggler know better than a seatroll adult? Maybe Dualscar wasn’t a bad troll. Maybe he was just like the Psiioniic’s trainer: kind of cold and austere but not a _bad_ person….

Maybe the Psiioniic just really wanted to believe that. Whatever the reason was, soon enough the Psiioniic found himself drinking the mind honey, all that disgusting, sticky sweetness, and feeling his vision go double and blur from the throb already building in his skull.

He heard the optic blasts more than saw it. He couldn’t see anything, just flashes of red and blue, and he heard the deafening explosion of the facility being torn apart piece by piece, distant screams of psionics and other trolls dying suddenly, barely having the time to realize that their death was coming, glass shattering and metal bending in on itself and entire floors collapsing to crush the occupants beneath. He felt the rising cloud of dust and dirt in his lungs, making thick layers of grime on his tongue, but still the mind honey overload shot out of him and he didn’t mind it, because it didn’t really hurt, and he couldn’t think about anything else anyway. Whenever his psionics were pushed to their limit like this, independent thought became more difficult. It was always better and easier to just let the energy out, become as a lifeless machine.

When it was over, his vision came back slowly. It was blurry at first, and his eyes throbbed and hurt from dryness and the pulsing blood. The entire canyon was obscured in a cloud of dust. He smelled smoke and fire. Where the facility had once stood was now a pile of debris, dotted with swaths of all types of low blood, mostly yellow but there were a few red and orange patches as well.

And it hit him then, what he had really done.

Dualscar’s hand was on top of his head, roughly patting him. “That was fuckin’ beautiful, grub,” he said, a suppressed laugh evident in his voice. The Psiioniic was too paralyzed to even process an emotion.

“You know what you’ve done now?” Dualscar asked, leaning down to bring himself eye level with him. The Psiioniic turned, somewhat automatically, to look him in the face.

“You’ve just made yourself a hundred fuckin’ times more valuable.” The seatroll grinned. “You’re a rare commodity now, wriggler.”

\---

Carmine didn’t actually see the explosion, but he could hear it. Once the first blast ripped through the silent landscape, the Dolorosa cried out and clutched him close to her, shocked by the sudden noise. And then it just kept on going, getting louder and more raucous, as it sounded like a million scraps of metal were popping and cracking and Carmine could even swear he felt a bit of electricity in the air like when lightning was about to strike.

Eventually it ended, though it felt like it went on for hours. Once they were certain it was quiet, Carmine wriggled himself out of the Dolorosa’s grasp and ran to the edge of the canyon. He felt his heart sink into his stomach as he saw the crater that had once been the psionic facility.

“It’s gone!” he shrieked. “It’s…it’s all blown up!” He turned to the Dolorosa, who warily peered over into the gorge. “Rosa was he in there?” he asked her, as if she knew.

His lusus had no response for him as she stared, completely stunned.

“Is he dead? He’s not—he can’t be— _Psiioniic!!_ ” Carmine screamed frantically.

“Don’t yell, they might hear you!” the huntress squealed restlessly.

“I can’t see him,” Carmine said, ignoring her. “Can you see him? Rosa, can you?”

The cloud of dust was too heavy. Carmine squinted as hard as he could to try to pierce through it, but not even troll vision was good enough. The three of them waited in the deafening silence, waiting for the smoke and dirt to clear. Hours or days could have passed. Carmine barely felt the passage of time. It took all his willpower not to throw himself down into the canyon again, just to find him, just to make sure that the Psiioniic was alive, he was safe….

When finally the cloud cleared, the sky was lightening, the sun on its way to rising. There was absolutely nothing to be seen in the canyon besides the debris, and what looked like pieces of troll bodies, scattered every which way. Carmine could see yellow blood on some of the wreckage if he looked really hard, but he couldn’t find the Psiioniic, living or dead.

 _Where are you?_ Carmine thought as hard as he could, wishing that maybe, somehow, impossibly, the Psiioniic would be able to hear him, read his mind from wherever he was.

But there was no answer. There was only the wind knocking over pebbles and shards of glass, and consuming, tyrannical emptiness.

He didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the Dolorosa’s soft hands pick him up off the ground. She began to carry him away, the little huntress following them silently. The Dolorosa stroked his hair slowly, warmly, saying, “It’s all right, love. He might be alive. We don’t know, Carmine. We just don’t know.”

“I want to change it, Rosa,” he said, sniffling, clutching her tightly. “I want to change _everything_.”

She smiled wearily. “You’re going to change the whole world?”

“I’m going to change it _back_ ,” he insisted. “I saw the way it used to be. I keep dreaming it, Rosa. It must be real. I know it is.”

“Tell me about it.”

The huntress began to lead them in the direction of a safe cave she knew, walking several feet ahead of them. The Dolorosa carried Carmine, and even though he was able to walk he didn’t want to, and he just grabbed onto her like he was two sweeps old again.

“There’s no such thing as threshecutioners, or cavalreapers, or even subjuggulators…people have different blood color but nobody cares, it’s just the same as like…horn shape or something. It’s just something you get when you’re hatched and that’s it. It’s not like…it’s not like blood color means you have to be….” His voice caught. He swallowed tightly, and kept going. “…It doesn’t mean you have to be a _thing_.”

He kept on talking, talking, and talking as they went along. The Dolorosa listened quietly to every word he said, which was a bit new for her. She was so used to filtering out the extra words and paying attention to only the gist of what Carmine was saying, since her wriggler was known to ramble on and on. But she hung on to his every sentence. Listened to every last description he gave her of his dream, of how a society could be built up from compassion and sympathy, not oppression and fear. It would have been easy to just dismiss what he said as the naïve babbling of a child, if not for the fact that what he described sounded so beautiful.

And the Dolorosa realized that she believed him. She had all this time, she had just been ignoring the fact. She _wanted_ his dream. She wanted it to be more than a dream. She wanted it to be real. In a world like that, she and Carmine wouldn’t have to hide everything, all the time. Her wriggler would be safe. Blood would be blood, and color would be color. Carmine could be with the matesprit he loved. Perhaps everyone could.

The Dolorosa believed, and she felt an odd stirring in her gut. That maybe she had given Carmine a chance at life for this reason. Maybe she had saved him so that he could save the rest of them.


	10. Culling

It seemed like they moved to a new cave every night. Sometimes it wasn’t even a cave as much as it was a rocky overhang. The greenblood huntress caught food for them almost every night, with Carmine assisting her whenever the Dolorosa allowed him to leave her sight. Sometimes the Dolorosa did not sleep at all. Carmine would wake up in the evening and find her watching him from a distance, with weary eyes and an affectionate smile. It always made him feel sort of guilty, though he couldn’t say why.

The Dolorosa always let Carmine and the huntress eat as much as they wanted before she started in herself. Carmine would try to stop eating before he had his fill so she could have more, but she always knew. The Dolorosa refused to let either of them be hungry.

Carmine suspected it was going to catch up with her at some point.

It had been about seven nights since they left the canyon. Seven nights that Carmine didn’t know whether the Psiioniic was alive or dead. Every night, he had dreamed of old Alternia. Every dream was clearer and more vivid than the last. He told the Dolorosa and the huntress all of it, and the little greenblood always hung on his every word. She was starting to believe him too. She would sometimes shake him awake before the moon rose, asking if he’d another dream, begging him to tell her about it before he was even fully conscious.

But dreams and visions were nothing but visions and dreams, as long as he remained isolated in the wilderness, homeless, signless, powerless. He tried not to let it discourage him. Things wouldn’t stay this way forever. He still had the Psiioniic’s yellow shirt, by now dirtied and torn in one spot, and tried to believe that his matesprit was still alive somewhere. The scar on the back of his hand was healed, the mark irrevocably cut into his skin. He traced it sometimes with his fingers when he was bored, or thinking about the Psiioniic, or otherwise preoccupied.

He had the Psiioniic’s shirt draped over his shoulders like a small cape, and he was idly playing with the sleeves as they hung down over his chest. They were moving again, as they did every night. Yesterday morning the Dolorosa had heard some trolls causing havoc not far from their camp for the day, so they were moving farther than usual tonight. The huntress led them, as always.

The Dolorosa wasn’t keeping up as steadily as she normally did. She sort of shuffled along beside Carmine, not reacting swiftly when he talked to her. She was looking pale. After a couple of miles she started to drift back, her pace slowing.

“Rosa?” Carmine asked her as she fell several paces behind him. She didn’t answer. “Rosa?”

“Hmm?” She looked tired. “Yes, love?”

Carmine stopped and walked back to her, grabbing her hand. “Do you not feel good?”

“I….” The Dolorosa rubbed her temples with two fingers. “I’m a bit tired.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re not eating.” The huntress had stopped as well and come back to see what was happening. “We should stop,” Carmine told her. “Rosa needs to rest.”

“I’m fine, Carmine,” she replied, smiling weakly. “It’s been a rough couple of nights.”

“Noooo,” he said insistently. “Seriously, Rosa, you don’t look good. Come here,” he demanded, reaching his hand up towards her face.

She bent down and he put his hand on her forehead. He frowned.

“Well?” the Dolorosa asked amusedly. “Is it bad?”

“You’re burning up,” Carmine declared as she stood up straight again. “Rosa you’re going to lay down right now.” He grabbed her hand tighter and began to lead her along.

“I can rest when we stop for the day, Carmine, I—” she started to protest.

“No, you’ll just get sicker! Listen to your grub, Rosa!” he replied in a huff.

There was a wooded area about a hundred yards from the path they were walking. Carmine led the Dolorosa to it, the huntress following unquestioningly. By the time they were in the shade, the Dolorosa was uncharacteristically out of breath. Carmine sat her down gently underneath a tree with enormous, thick roots, in a spot where she could lay down comfortable and remain fairly hidden from cursory, passing glances.

“Okay, just lay down for a little bit and rest,” Carmine told her, rubbing the top of her head, trying his best to emulate what she had done for him whenever he had been ill.

“We don’t…have to stop…” the Dolorosa tried to say, but she was already falling asleep. The exhaustion and hunger was catching up with her, just like he’d known it always would. Carmine bunched up the Psiioniic’s shirt and put it under her head as she laid it down on the soft earth. She was asleep immediately.

Carmine scowled at her worriedly. “Rosa doesn’t make any sense sometimes,” he told the huntress. “I know she wasn’t eating so that we could have enough food, but now she hasn’t eaten for nights and now _she’s_ the one who’s sick!”

“She’s your lusus.” The huntress shrugged. “They do things like that.”

“Well, it goes both ways.” Carmine grabbed his sickle and started to walk away.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“I’m gonna go see if I can find her something to eat. You stay here and watch her.”

“No, wait,” she protested, grabbing Carmine’s arm as he tried to walk off. “Let me go. I’m better at hunting than you are. _You_ should stay with her.”

“She’s _my_ lusus though,” Carmine protested. “ _I_ should be able to take care of her if she needs it!”

The huntress raised an eyebrow at him. “You have no idea where we are, you don’t know how to forage in the woods, and you’re so loud when you try to sneak around that every troll around knows where you are. Trust me, you _are_ taking care of you if you let me do it.”

Carmine glared at her angrily but he knew she made a good point. He plopped himself down next to the Dolorosa, not breaking eye contact with the huntress and her smug face the whole time. “Well?” he said, crossing his arms impatiently. “Get going!”

The huntress giggled and ran further into the woods, completely disappearing from Carmine’s sight in seconds. Carmine turned to look at the Dolorosa, and even asleep, she looked so tired.

Carmine shuffled in closer to her, laying himself down beside her. The Dolorosa’s pretty green dress was being ruined night by night from all their intensive traveling. It made him feel guilty. She’d made that dress herself, and she loved it, and she didn’t have any of her things to fix it with…his own clothes were starting to get a little ratty, and he’d noticed the way she cringed to see rips in his cloak that she had no means to fix.

Well, he’d find a way to get her a needle and thread again. He’d find some way to make sure they _all_ had enough to eat, so that this wouldn’t happen to her again. Carmine put his arms around the Dolorosa as best he could and hugged her tight. She mumbled a bit in her sleep but otherwise didn’t stir.

He must have nodded off, because he felt a sharp poke in his shoulder, and he blinked his eyes open and the sky was starting to lighten.

“ _Hey!_ ” came the huntress’ voice, hushed and frantic. “Wake up!”

“…Huh?” said Carmine, rolling over. He looked up and her upside-down face was hovering above him.

“There’s something going on out here,” she told him in a hushed voice. “I heard lots of yelling a little bit back that way. I think there are trolls getting…purged…out here.”

Carmine was wide awake instantly. “Is it highbloods?” he asked frantically, scrambling to his feet.

The huntress cringed a bit and shook her head. “No, I…Carmine, I think it’s…psionics.”

“What?” Carmine felt himself deflate. His Psiioniic couldn’t be here, he just couldn’t, could he? And doing what? He wouldn’t kill innocent trolls, he couldn’t, he couldn’t….

“I only caught a glimpse because I needed to get back here to warn you guys but it’s all adults,” she assured him, seemingly reading the worry in his eyes.

Carmine could start to hear noise building up from somewhere far in the distance. There was some kind of commotion happening, screaming and shouting and the sound of trees being felled….

“We have to get Rosa out of here,” Carmine said, feeling panic well up, but the huntress grabbed onto his shoulder.

“Hey, calm down,” she told him. “We’re pretty well hidden right here, let’s just both go lay down with her and they should just go right by us. There’s already trolls out here that they’re chasing after, they’re not looking for anybody new. So let’s just wait it out, okay?”

Carmine considered a moment, then nodded tightly. He and the huntress went to lay themselves down close to the Dolorosa, who still remained in a blissful, unaware sleep. The sounds from out in the woods were getting louder, and Carmine could start to hear the screams of dying trolls and the peculiar noise made by psionic blasts going everywhere. He snuggled up closer to the Dolorosa, hoping she wouldn’t wake up, that she’d just sleep through this, because she didn’t need to see it, it would be too much for her….

A group of about twelve or thirteen trolls ran past their hiding spot, all of them bleeding red, orange, yellow, or even green blood, some of them adults, others no more than wrigglers. They were running in an absolute panic, and some of the older ones were carrying the smaller trolls even as they themselves were bleeding out all over the forest floor, but just as soon as Carmine saw them there was a surge of optic psionic blasts from somewhere unseen, wiping out about ten of the trolls instantly. They tumbled to the forest floor, charred and bloody husks of meat where before they had been living trolls, wounded but alive, _alive_ and desperate to remain that way….

There were only three trolls left alive, all wrigglers. All younger than Carmine and the huntress. An adult psionic troll strolled into Carmine’s line of sight, his eyes flaring with psionic energy, a colorless white flare, nothing like the Psiioniic’s signature red-and-blue. He almost looked like he was sleepwalking, and Carmine saw that something thick and sticky was covering the psionic’s face around his lips, and the whole front of his chest was covered in the stuff that kind of looked like honey….

And then, a hoard of bluebloods came running in, there had to be about six of them, and all of them were so much bigger than the remaining wrigglers, some of them even bigger than the Dolorosa. Carmine felt his heart clench up in dread anticipation because he knew what was coming, he knew what they were going to do, knew that he couldn’t stop it, no matter what.

The bluebloods descended on the wrigglers like rampaging musclebeasts, snatching them up by the neck, ignoring their squeals and tears, cutting their throats and laughing at the color that came spilling out, running their fingers through the bright colors and jokingly painting designs on one another with it. The drugged psionic only stood there, emotionless, unfeeling as an automaton. Carmine felt himself grow cold at the sight of it. Those trolls…were just _babies_. And dead now…dead, because…because _why_?

Color. It was always color. Carmine clenched his fists and his teeth, shaking with fury and frustration.

Eventually, the sick war dance ended, and the bluebloods took their psionic and left, leaving the scattered bodies and pools of blood to sink into the dirt. The forest was quiet again. The sun was starting to rise, but the leafy foliage of the trees kept this place in darkness.

Carmine heard a sniffle. He turned, and the huntress was hastily wiping green tears away from her eyes. She stared at him, a wordless expression on her face, frowning and daring him to say something about her crying. Carmine didn’t say anything to her. She sniffled again, and just turned away.

The Dolorosa moved behind him. She reached out her arms and pulled him close to her in a tight hug. Carmine wondered how long she had been awake. If she had seen everything.

There was a small noise from somewhere in the carnage. Carmine’s ears perked up. One of the corpses that had fallen face down was…moving? No, it was just…it was just another wriggler. One of them had survived the first psionic blast. Warily Carmine lifted his head up a bit to get a closer look. The wriggler was covered in red blood, and she was pushing the heavy dead corpse off of her. She must have hidden there, waiting for the trolls to disappear….

Before he could talk himself out of it, Carmine got to his feet. Carefully, quietly, he approached the little troll, who hadn’t noticed him as of yet. She was wiping her eyes, trying to wipe some of the blood off her arms, too in shock to realize process the full gravity of what had happened around her. When she saw Carmine coming, her face went completely pale. She sat there, letting him approach, watching him come closer, and Carmine realized it was because she expected him to kill her.

He came up as close as he dared and knelt down in front of her. The redblood wriggler just stared, wide-eyed, waiting for her supposed death.

Carmine mustered up as big a smile as he could. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. A bit of the fear melted out of her and was replaced with perplexity.

“Here, let me, uh….” Carmine dug through his pocket for a half-eaten piece of fruit he’d been saving. He held it out to her. “Sorry, but…it’s all I’ve got.”

“…Why aren’t you…” the wriggler started to say, completely baffled.

Carmine grinned. “Come on, I’m helping you. Do you want to come with us? We don’t really have a place to live or anything, but we’d be with you and we could keep you safe.”

She had no idea what to say. Nobody… _nobody_ said things like that to a redblood. It wasn’t…it wasn’t what people did…. She started to cry without knowing why. She reached out and snatched the fruit away and started eating it, and crying as she chewed and swallowed and it was so good, it tasted so good and the fact that somebody had come to help her after all this was just…it was just….

It was too much. She stood up and started to run away, before the anonymous gray troll with no sign could say anything in protest. She ran and ran through the woods, just hoping she wouldn’t run into any more bluebloods or psionics, until she made it back to the remains of the town that the bluebloods had ravaged.

As puzzling and bizarre as the mysterious troll’s behavior had been, as much as she couldn’t explain it, she only hoped that before the day she was inevitably culled, she’d be able to tell somebody about the troll with no sign in the woods that had given her food, and offered…compassion.


	11. Drifting

The Psiioniic would always remember the first time.

He would always remember how he hesitated, and the feeling of complete, utter control over a stranger’s fate, over another troll’s death. He’d remember the moment he made the decision to do it, the moment he essentially gave up and decided that obeying orders was more important than doing what he knew was right. He remembered the smile Dualscar gave him when all the lowbloods were dead. How proud he was.

The Psiioniic went with Dualscar everywhere. They didn’t go back to his ship for the first few nights after leaving the psionic facility. They traveled from town to town, and it seemed Dualscar always had somebody to meet, somebody to talk to and exchange some kind of information with, and then late at night before the sun came up, Dualscar, the Psiioniic, and his seatroll entourage would venture out into the town and dig out any lowbloods they could find, smoke out the weaklings, the sick and the injured and the orphaned, and if the seatrolls couldn’t catch them then it was the Psiioniic’s job to gun them down from afar.

Once, after a particularly “busy” night, Dualscar had put some mind honey in the Psiioniic’s mouth, and when he came back to his senses the entire town was a smoking heap.

The destruction of the training facility—and subsequently, a large portion of available psionics—had become common knowledge fairly quickly. Dualscar wasn’t keeping it a secret that it was him who’d done it. He seemed to love flaunting to whoever would listen the fact that now that the psionic supply did not meet the demand, his own little psionic was a new rarity, an investment that would pay for itself in no time.

After about seven nights they made their way to the coast and Dualscar’s ship. The Psiioniic had never seen the ocean before. He wasn’t sure he liked it. He didn’t know how to swim and he didn’t like the feeling of being in water, so to see such a huge, empty expanse of water and know that they would be riding on top of it…it made him cringe.

But Dualscar wasn’t going to care about that. Nobody would. So he’d just have to learn to deal with it, in any way he could.

The ocean terrified him for another reason. If he and Dualscar were to leave, go across the sea to a new continent entirely, it would only be that much more space in between him and Carmine. The Psiioniic would probably never find him again. He wouldn’t even know which continent to go back to, given the opportunity. All he could do was pray silently that they weren’t sailing anywhere but further up the coast. Because if they went elsewhere, then…the Psiioniic didn’t have any ideas. Not a clue of what he’d do.

Carmine would find a way, if it were him. He’d know of something to do. The Psiioniic stared down at the scar on the back of his hand as he followed Dualscar up the wooden gangway onto his ship.

Dualscar pretty much never let the Psiioniic out of his sight. The Psiioniic was rare now, and Dualscar knew all the implications of that, good and bad. He wasn’t going to risk the off chance that some other seatroll or highblood would try to take what wasn’t theirs.

Dualscar’s ship was full of adult seatrolls who seemed enormous compared to the Psiioniic, as well as a few blueblood landdwellers. A few of them shot him interested glances when he and Dualscar arrived on the deck, apparently having heard about their captain’s new psionic. The Psiioniic just ignored them and tried to stay close to Dualscar. He followed him as they went under deck, eventually ending up in a room the Psiioniic guessed was Dualscar’s quarters. The Psiioniic went in first, Dualscar following, and then the seatroll shut the door behind them and locked it.

For one terrible instant paralyzing fear welled up in the Psiioniic’s heart.

But then Dualscar turned to face him, and there was nothing malicious in his eyes. Dualscar wordlessly gestured to a table at the far wall, and the Psiioniic went over to it, taking a seat in one of the adjacent chairs. He tried not to take his eyes off Dualscar the entire time, suspicious but not quite afraid.

“I haven’t had a chance to speak with you privately since we left,” Dualscar said, crossing the room and bending down in front of him, so that the two of them were eye level. “But there’s something I want to get straight with you.”

The Psiioniic nodded, watching him intensely, vaguely aware of gripping the seat of his chair with both hands nervously.

“I trust you’re smart enough to understand the fact that you and I took out a very large portion of psionic trolls,” Dualscar said steadily. “We didn’t kill them all, clearly, but we managed to piss off a hell of a lot of seatrolls who wanted one of their own and now can’t get one.” He smiled wide with those shark teeth of his, victory glinting in his magenta eyes.

“So until this dies down a bit, I’m going to keep you with me at all times. I’m not going to let anyone take you from me, or try to bribe you away from me, or buy you off me. I went through a lot of trouble and money to get you and I intend to protect that investment, you got me?”

The Psiioniic nodded again.

“That said, while I trust all the seatrolls I have in my employment, that doesn’t mean that none of them aren’t backstabbing pricks who’d betray me at the first opportunity to get some profit from it. So I don’t want you trusting anybody else on this ship but me. In fact, I don’t even want you talking to anybody else except me. Safer that way. You need anything, you suspect anything, anybody here make you feel uncomfortable or try to put ideas in your head, you tell me immediately, you got that?”

“…Yeah,” the Psiioniic replied. “I understand.”

“Good,” Dualscar said with a smile. He stood up and ruffled the Psiioniic’s hair, not unkindly. “So until I’m comfortable with leaving you by yourself, you get to stay here with me.”

“…Oh,” said the Psiioniic, feeling a bit of the fear sting him in the chest again. “I, um…thankth.” He didn’t really know why he said it past the fact that it was what Dualscar wanted to hear.

“I’ve got some things to take care off before we shove off but I’ll bring you something to eat later on. Until then, just make yourself comfortable.” Dualscar left, shutting the door softly behind him and locking it from the outside with a telltale click.

He could hear some footsteps above him and outside in the small corridor but otherwise the room was silent. The Psiioniic hadn’t been by himself in a long time. He took a moment to study Dualscar’s respiteblock. It was enormous, for one thing, probably took up at least a quarter of the ship’s capacity under deck. Dualscar had all sorts of maps and nautical equipment the Psiioniic didn’t recognize thrown messily over his tables, bookcases full of disorganized books, boxes overflowing with golden seatroll jewelry, and one large picture adorning the far wall.

The Psiioniic knew who the picture was of immediately, even though he’d never met her.

It was of the seatroll Empress. Her Imperious Condescension. It was a portrait of her, a painting that somebody had painstakingly produced, and it was so full of detail that it could have been her staring at him through a window and he never would have known the difference.

She was beautiful in a kind of terrifying way. Her eyes were the purest shade of fuchsia, her horns gracefully curved and perfectly unweathered, her tiara and necklaces and earrings all gleaming, burnished gold. She was alluring in the way that poisonous beasts were, enticing and frightening but irresistible. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, the Psiioniic had a hard time taking his eyes off her.

He continued the scan the rest of the room. Dualscar was bigger than a normal troll because he was a seatroll, and as such his recuperacoon took up an entire wall of space. The Psiioniic tried not to think about the extreme likelihood that they’d be sharing that. At the same time, though, it wasn’t as though he didn’t believe Dualscar when he’d said he wouldn’t let any harm come to him…but he’d have to prove it. The Psiioniic didn’t just trust anybody based on what they _said_. That was a stupid way to live your life.

He’d never really trusted anybody at all, not until he’d met Carmine and the Dolorosa.

He traced the scar with his fingers. He wondered how long it would take for him to forget what Carmine looked like.

\---

It was a few hours before Dualscar came back. The ship had started to move about an hour prior to his return. The Psiioniic had been standing on a chair, staring out a little porthole at the disappearing coast. He tried not to be nervous. This ship was enormous, it was just like being in a regular room on land, why wouldn’t he be safe here? But still…still, there was so much sea and the thing they were using to travel on it was so little….

He stopped watching after he couldn’t see land anymore. He stared at the spines of the books on Dualscar’s bookcase, pulling down a few that looked interesting, flipping through their pages and putting them back. When he heard footsteps outside the door and the doorknob being fiddled with, he hurriedly put down the volume he was reading.

Dualscar walked in, followed by a blueblood carrying two trays of food. The blueblood wordlessly set the food at the table and walked back out.

“…Welcome back,” the Psiioniic said after some consideration.

Dualscar looked at him with some amused hesitation, then smiled. “Well, thanks, grub. Awful nice of you to say.” He pulled out a chair and beckoned him. “Come on, let’s eat. I’m fucking starving.”

The Psiioniic had to say he was too. He tried not to look too eager as he came up and sat down at the table, Dualscar seating himself across from him. There was a huge plate of filleted fish with some vegetables the Psiioniic didn’t recognize but he sure wasn’t going to complain, along with some creamy soup that looked and smelled _so good_ he could barely stand it….

Dualscar was already eating so the Psiioniic figured it was all right for him to start too. He had to try not to stuff his face as quickly as possible as he was wont to do when confronted with delicious food, and it was certainly an effort.

“So you don’t like to talk much, do you?” Dualscar asked with a mouth full of food, grabbing a bottle of some alcoholic drink the blueblood had left him.

The Psiioniic’s mouth was full too, so he just shook his head.

“Must be that embarrassing fucking lisp, huh?” Dualscar said, grinning and taking a swig.

The Psiioniic shrugged. Yeah, that was partly it.

“I’m sure you could talk normal if you weren’t lazy about it.”

For some reason…that kind of stung the Psiioniic a little deeper than he expected. He opened his mouth to respond, hesitated, but then decided to speak after all.

“It’s not like…it’s thomething I can just…thtop having,” he said quietly.

Dualscar paused, widening his eyes a bit. “Excuse me?” he asked, leaning forward, not quite having heard him.

“And it’s not ‘cause I’m lazy,” the Psiioniic continued. “It’s just thomething I was born with.”

Dualscar shrugged, and took another deep drink. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, not at all the answer the Psiioniic was anticipating. “I guess if you lowbloods could just choose to stop having all the things that make you so irritatingly inferior then you would have done it by now, huh?” He grinned smugly.

The Psiioniic frowned. “Like what?” he asked, his voice still quiet. “My blood color?”

“For one thing.”

“I…I was born with it,” he said, starting to feel a bit of deeper irritation. “It wasn’t…a choice I had.”

Dualscar scoffed. “And I was born into a world where lowbloods and landdwellers infest Alternia and us seatrolls are doomed to grubsit them for the whole of our existence. We all get raw deals, wriggler. Not just you.”

It was pointless to continue the conversation. The Psiioniic just concentrated on his food and tried not to look at Dualscar. He was already a bit out of line with the way he’d talked back. He didn’t quite want to push his luck that much more, but at the same time, he couldn’t just let an ignorant comment like that go without saying something.

Carmine had once asked him if he could just say “no”, as if it were that simple, as if that were a power he were ever meant to have. The Dolorosa had told Carmine that the Psiioniic’s caste, in the most simple terms, wasn’t allowed to say no. Wasn’t allowed to refuse or question or bite back. That was the privilege of highbloods. That was the difference between them.

It was such a small thing, in theory, but so _frustrating_ not to have. Dualscar could do anything he wanted. He could kill hundreds of psionic trolls just so his own was more valuable. The Psiioniic couldn’t even explain that his lisp was something he did involuntarily. Because anything he said was tainted by the fact that it came out of a lowblood mouth. Somehow less true. Somehow less worthy.

Because he was born with yellow blood, and Dualscar was born with magenta blood. That was the only reason. The only difference. The only difference that mattered.

The Psiioniic was so entrenched in the maelstrom of thoughts that he barely noticed how much time had passed. And how many empty bottles of Dualscar’s alcohol were now lining the table.

“ _Grub_ ,” Dualscar said, in a tone that said he’d been trying to get his attention for a while. The Psiioniic’s head whipped up.

“Yes?” he asked quietly.

“I asked you a fuckin’ question.” He was slurring and his eyelids were drooping.

“I’m…I’m thorry, I didn’t hear you….” The Psiioniic tried to keep the tremble out of his voice.

Dualscar chuckled lowly and then asked, far too loud, “I said has a lowblood wriggler like you ever had a matesprit or a kismesis?”

“I…um….”

“I’ve got a kismesis,” Dualscar said, taking another deep drink. “And she’s a _fuckin’_ handful, I’ll tell you that much, but damn if I never had another rival quite as frustrating as that woman. She keeps me feelin’ alive, you know that? Do you have any idea how a black romance is supposed to work, grub?”

The Psiioniic shook his head but he had the feeling Dualscar wasn’t really waiting for his answer.

“It’s about hate, but it’s hate that makes you want to become stronger, hate that makes you want to better yourself. Hate that turns into a passion, a _drive_ , something that makes you get up in the evening and work your fuckin’ ass off to be better than the other person.”

Dualscar stared into his bottle for a moment, then took a drink, finishing it off and tossing it across the room. “But matespritship…” he said, his voice becoming husky, “that’s a whole different kind of drive. Where you want to better yourself not so you can surpass somebody, but so you can be good enough for somebody.” The Psiioniic saw his eyes drift to the portrait of the Condesce on the opposite wall. “Matespritship makes you want to be the best troll you’re able to be, not for yourself, but so that your matesprit has somebody they deserve.”

Dualscar turned his gaze back to the Psiioniic. “Do you know anything about that, grub?”

“I, uh….” He swallowed past the lump in his throat and tried not to get upset, tried to push away the thought of Carmine in his head because he wasn’t there anymore, he wasn’t coming back, their promise was just a silly little impulse made by wrigglers which they could never hope to keep….

Dualscar grinned. “Looks like you do. Got a matesprit, do you?”

The Psiioniic shook his head pathetically. “No,” he replied. “No, I don’t. Not…not anymore.”

“That’s a shame. They get fried with all the other psionics back there?”

“…No….” The Psiioniic was staring down at the plate that he’d clean completely of food, and he felt nauseous like it was all going to come back up. “No, he wasn’t one of them.”

_I miss you I really really miss you I wish you were here I’m sorry I’m weak I’m sorry I don’t believe you Carmine where are you…._

“…It’s okay, grub,” Dualscar said, his voice surprisingly soft. “I don’t have one either. The one I’m flushed for doesn’t even know my name.” He sighed. “We’re a bit of a pathetic pair, aren’t we?”

The Psiioniic was startled by the tickle of a tear escaping his eyes and he hurriedly wiped it away. He heard Dualscar get up from his seat and walk over to kneel down beside him. The Psiioniic refused to look at him but Dualscar gently took his face in between his weather-beaten hands and turned it towards him.

“I’m a little drunk, but…” Dualscar said, the rancid scent of alcohol rolling off his breath, “sometimes that’s when we say things we mean the most. You’re flushed for someone. I’m flushed for someone. We’ve got things to work out in both our lives. I can’t talk to any of these grubfucking idiots I got on my ship here. You can hardly fucking talk at all. Things might be easier…stuff might look clearer…if we could agree to do that for one another.”

The Psiioniic knew what he was going to ask. And he didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to have to say yes or no or not answer at all….

“So you want to be moirails, grub?” Dualscar asked him. “We don’t have to tell anyone if you’re embarrassed. I understand. But we’ve got a pretty good thing going. Come on, what do you say?”

It wasn’t infidelity, not really. It was a different quadrant completely. Moirallegiance had _nothing_ to do with matespritship, that was something that was clear to every troll.

So why did he still feel like he’d be betraying Carmine by accepting?

Maybe it’d be okay, though. He’d have someone to talk to…if Dualscar would ever let him talk. So he bit his tongue, swallowed, and nodded vigorously.

Dualscar grinned. “Good,” he said, and to the Psiioniic’s complete horror, began to lean in closer to his face…

“No!” the Psiioniic exclaimed, pulling back out of Dualscar’s grasp. “No, moirails don’t…moirails aren’t thupposed to kith,” he said quietly.

Then he realized what he’d said, and he shut his eyes quickly.

“I’m thorry,” he blurted out. “I’m thorry, I know I thaid ‘no’ and I’m not thupposed to, I’m thorry, I didn’t mean that, I just meant….”

He felt Dualscar’s hand on top of his head, caressing softly, and his words trailed off. “It’s okay, wriggler,” Dualscar said gently. “That was out of line. See? You’re being a good moirail to me already, letting me know when I’m being a dumbass.” The Psiioniic peeked his eyes open and Dualscar was smiling.

“I think we’ll be good together. So you let me know when I’m fucking up, and I’ll return the favor. All good?”

“…Y-yeah,” the Psiioniic replied. “Yeah, okay.”

Dualscar leaned in and grabbed him up in an overwhelming embrace, and it was completely moirail territory and completely appropriate, but the Psiioniic still felt like shuddering and squirming in his arms. Dualscar smelled like salt and drink and fish and it was nothing like anything comforting, nothing like anything the Psiioniic really wanted. But who else was there? What else did he have if not…this?


	12. The Blood Purge

The Psiioniic didn’t really know what to do with himself in Dualscar’s respiteblock. He was there all the time. The first day, Dualscar had drunkenly shambled himself over to his recuperacoon and gone to sleep instantly. The Psiioniic had contented himself with curling up on a nearby couch. He was fairly used to sleeping without sopor slime, having lost a bit of dependence on the stuff while at the training facility, but it was still a struggle to stay asleep. He kept thinking about Carmine. He couldn’t think about anything else at all these days.

Dualscar was above deck during most of the night. He came back occasionally to see how the Psiioniic was doing, if he wanted or needed anything, but there was never anything to tell him. The Psiioniic had nothing to do but flip through Dualscar’s books, which had absolutely nothing in them of any interest to him, and practice his psionics on a few things that he was positive wouldn’t break.

As it turned out, Dualscar was serious about wanting a moirallegiance with the Psiioniic; it hadn’t just been an impulsive drunken request. Every time Dualscar came down to his respiteblock to rest, or eat, or just check up on him, he would talk and talk and talk. The Psiioniic wasn’t exactly sure what Dualscar, a fully-grown seatroll, could possibly gain from talking to a four-sweep-old wriggler, but it seemed that just the action of talking was what he was after. The Psiioniic never had any advice for him. How _could_ he? What did the Psiioniic know about unrequited flushed feelings?

In any case, it made things at once easy and boring. All the Psiioniic ever had to do was listen to Dualscar’s rambling—which more often than not was drunken rambling—but that was about it. As long as they were still sailing, the Psiioniic’s services weren’t otherwise needed.

“How much longer are we going to be out here?” the Psiioniic asked that night during their supper. He could generally ignore the fact that he was on a ship if he didn’t look out the window, but he was getting more and more uncomfortable and queasy as the days wore on.

“Funny you should ask,” Dualscar replied, drinking as usual. “We’re set to arrive in the morning. And I hope you’ve had yourself a nice rest, because you’ve got a lot of work ahead of you.”

The Psiioniic’s heart sank. There was going to be more killing after all.

“Big place needs to be weeded out up north,” Dualscar continued, staring down into his bottle, perplexed at how it was getting emptier and emptier. “Took me a long time to find out about this one.”

“…What do you mean?” the Psiioniic asked apprehensively.

“I mean,” Dualscar replied, “every sweep, trolls that are meant to be culled suddenly go missing. Little bits here and there, wouldn’t be a problem if it didn’t happen every fucking time a culling drone got sent to this particular area. The Grand Highblood always suspected there was someplace they were all going, someplace we couldn’t find, a place completely festering with fucking failures of trolls, all the weak ones and the sick ones and the straight-up fucking _freaks_. Do you know how fucked we’d all be if their genetic material got into the gene pool?”

The Psiioniic knew what Dualscar was about to say next. He just waited for it to be confirmed.

“But we found it,” Dualscar said, his smile spreading slowly across his face. “Took a lot of work, too. But they don’t know we’re coming. We’re sailing up the coast and coming in through the back. And I’ve got you, some nice honey for you to snack on, and all my seatrolls. It should be a quick job. And then….” He trailed off a bit, his voice growing wistful. “ _Then_ , Her Imperious Condescension is sure to hear my name. She’s sure to hear about this.”

The Psiioniic turned his head to stare at the portrait of the Condesce on the opposite wall. He tried to avoid looking at it as much as possible when he was alone. He could feel her eyes on him all the time.

“…What’s she like?” he asked quietly.

“Beautiful. Powerful. Deadly.” Dualscar was silent then, entrenched in his own thoughts. “If she wanted anything in all of Alternia, all she’d need to do was say a word and a million trolls would scramble to have it for her in an hour.” Again, a deep pause. “If she wanted anything, and asked _me_ , she’d have it before she even finished her sentence.”

The room felt charged, as if the Condesce really was there in the portrait, as if her eyes really could see them in this respiteblock, even from miles and miles away, wherever she was.

“Who knows…” Dualscar said, “if we pull this off, wriggler, you might even get to meet her.” He grinned. “I think she’d like you.”

\---

The ship finally, finally stopped moving later that day, when the sun was in its way to setting. The Psiioniic, having been asleep on the couch as usual, was jerked awake by the change in movement. He hadn’t thought that he was so attuned to the moving ship, but evidently he was. He must have adapted better than he’d thought.

He moved the chair over to the window again and stared out. They were anchored a mile or two offshore, and from what the Psiioniic could see, the landscape wasn’t much different from the area they’d left. It was a bit more mountainous, but he couldn’t really tell that they’d moved much at all. Well. He’d trust the fact that this was a new spot.

The door opened. It was Dualscar, and he gestured for the Psiioniic to follow him. The prospect of finally leaving that stuffy little room excited him, and the Psiioniic was eager to comply. When they emerged above deck, the Psiioniic blinked his eyes painfully at the surge of red-and-orange light coating the sky.

“All right, grub,” Dualscar said. “Here’s what’s going to happen.”

“Yes?”

Dualscar was strapping an enormous crossbow over his shoulder and looking especially eager. “You and me and a couple of other seatrolls are going in first. This place is supposed to have some defenses but I’ve heard they’re actually pretty shitty, so if we’re smart we should be able to clear it all out before anybody is alerted to our presence.” He glanced down at the Psiioniic. “Do you know how to swim?”

The fear welled up again, replacing the brief excitement of fresh air. “Um…no,” the Psiioniic replied. “I mean…if I had to…I could figure something out….”

Dualscar rolled his eyes, then reached down and swiftly picked the Psiioniic up off his feet. He positioned the smaller troll onto his back, saying, “Here, just put your arms around my neck but don’t choke me for fuck’s sake…I’ll swim close to the surface so you can breathe, all right?”

“Uh…okay,” the Psiioniic replied as Dualscar climbed up onto the railing of the ship. The water from up here looked like a void, a black, bottomless pit, and if the Psiioniic lost his grip, if he let go he was surely going to panic….

There was no more time to worry. Dualscar dove off the ship and they plunged deep into the frigid water.

Immediately the Psiioniic panicked. All his limbs seized up at once and he lost his grip on Dualscar. For a terrible moment he couldn’t feel anything at all in the cold water, just endless, thick, freezing liquid, wrapping him from all directions and slowing his movements. Just as quickly, a hand reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him up towards the surface.

“The point is to hold on,” Dualscar told him humorlessly. The Psiioniic hastily reached out and grabbed onto him again, but his breath was coming faster and shorter and his body was panicking, despite the fact that he knew he was safe now….

“Duals-scar,” he stammered, “I—I can’t—breathe—”

Dualscar was already swimming as fast as a seatroll his size could go. “You’ll make it, grub, it’s not that far.”

The Psiioniic flared his mental energy and wrapped himself in red-and-blue psionics, soaking in the warmth of the raw power, shutting out the water and shielding himself from the cold. He was still shivering and it was a bit of an effort to keep the psionics going, but it was better, so much better, than before. Soon his breathing returned to normal as the hyperventilation died off, and before he knew it, he and Dualscar were wading towards the shore.

Several other seatrolls arrived not long after them, and just as the Psiioniic was starting to wring out his wet clothing, Dualscar shoved a familiar glass jar into his hands.

“Don’t eat it until I tell you to,” he said, fiddling with some settings on his crossbow…or maybe it was a type of harpoon gun…the Psiioniic wasn’t sure.

But he didn’t care either. He stared at the mind honey in his hands, ignoring the sounds of the laughing seatrolls ready to satisfy a raging bloodlust after so many nights at sea. He didn’t like the stuff. Just the sight of it was making his head pulse with the phantom memory of the enormous headache it brought on. He remembered his trainer saying something about the honey being addictive, or maybe he was just making that memory up, as a way to come up with some excuse….

“Dualscar?” he asked quietly. Somehow, the seatroll heard him. He turned and stared down at him, wordlessly.

“I, um….” The Psiioniic held the jar back out to him. “I don’t really need this. I mean…I can manage fine on my own, you don’t have to give it to me every time—”

Dualscar lashed out, grabbing onto the Psiioniic’s outstretched wrist. He raised an eyebrow. “You wanna think about what you’re saying before you say it?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

The Psiioniic stumbled over his words a bit, but somehow, from somewhere, he got the courage to speak again. “L-look, it’s not…mind honey’s not a…not a toy. If you keep making me eat it it’s gonna make me sick or something, or mess me all up and then I wouldn’t be any use to you at all.”

Losing patience, Dualscar yanked the jar out of the Psiioniic’s hand. He unscrewed the top, and said flatly, “Open up your fucking mouth, grub.”

Defeated this time, the Psiioniic did what he said. Dualscar tipped the jar into his open mouth, and he felt the familiar fuzziness start to take him, and his vision was filling up with white and blue and red.

He felt Dualscar’s rough hand over his eyes. “Close them,” he said.

“…I can’t,” the Psiioniic replied, his own voice sounding disembodied and far away.

“Keep them closed. Until I tell you to open them.”

“…It hurts….” He tried to keep his eyelids closed but the blasts were itching for release. He drove his palms into his eyes to keep them shut, and he could swear he felt his skull fracturing from the buildup of pressure.

There was a shout from one of the seatrolls. The sound of a thick, wet thump and then a body fell to the ground. Dualscar was cursing, and the other seatrolls started yelling. The Psiioniic opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of a horde of redblood and orangeblood trolls appearing from absolutely nowhere, descending upon the seatrolls, and Dualscar was shooting them down with blasts from his gun and then the psionics overflowed and began to consume, began to destroy everything.

\---

“They knew we were coming,” somebody said. It sounded like Dualscar.

It faded.

\---

A seatroll sliced the head off a bleeding troll. Dark red blood spilled out of the open wound and the head was thrown away, discarded.

It faded.

\---

“Come on, grub, just a little furth—…”

In and out, rising and descending in volume.

\---

Caves on the hillside. Makeshift hives. Broken fortifications. More seatrolls were coming. Dualscar’s mood seemed to have lifted. He was grinning widely, shooting bursts of blue light from his gun, laughing at every new color of blood splatter that splashed onto the ground. It was full dark now but there was firelight coming from somewhere. Firelight and smoke.

And the taste of something sweet on his tongue.

\---

When he awoke again, he was crying, and his leg was broken.

Dualscar’s face appeared over him, the two jagged lines across his face that were his namesake glowing in the moonlight. He almost looked…relieved.

“There you are,” he said, shouldering the harpoon gun and lifting the Psiioniic off the ground. “Shit, you went fuckin’ crazy there, wriggler. I’m proud.”

“I think…” the Psiioniic said, struggling to stifle his tears, “I think something’s broken.”

“Yeah, we all got fucked up pretty badly. But the good news is we got them all.”

“…All of them?” he asked, trying to piece together the last several hours but what little bits he did have were fading away. “…All the trolls are dead here?”

“Some got away,” Dualscar replied, disappointed. “But I sent some trolls after them. Seriously, don’t you remember any of it, wriggler?”

“No.” The pain of his broken leg was starting to grow. “Not really.” He couldn’t tell the difference between the aftertaste of honey and blood in his mouth. There was a headache on its way, he could feel it.

Dualscar smiled. “I’m really proud of you, grub. You did really well. I’ll remember this.”

His head was still spinning too much. Dualscar began to carry him away. Sound was starting to become muffled from the rising agony in the Psiioniic’s leg and head. He shut his eyes and tried to will himself to sleep. He heard another set of footsteps approaching, another seatroll calling Dualscar’s name.

Dualscar stopped and turned to face the new troll. “Yes, what do you want?” he asked. The Psiioniic barely heard him. Subconsciously he found himself curling up deeper into Dualscar’s chest.

“Thought you should see this.” Then there was utter silence between the two of them. The Psiioniic forced his eyes open to see what they were looking at.

The seatroll was holding up a torn piece of grey fabric. It was adorned with a large splotch of candy red blood. The difference between this hue and normal red blood was unmistakable. This was a color that should not exist. An anomaly. A mystery. Mutant carmine red.

“We didn’t really know what to make of it but we thought you should see,” the seatroll said, somewhat nervously.

“Are you sure it’s blood?” Dualscar asked, adjusting the Psiioniic in his arms so he could reach out and grab the fabric, inspect it for himself. He brought it close to his face and sniffed it. He frowned, apparently enraged and intrigued all at once.

“Pretty sure,” replied the other seatroll.

The Psiioniic didn’t hear anything else that they said after that. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the little piece of cloth. Even though it probably meant nothing, he couldn’t jump to conclusions, he couldn’t possibly know for sure, but….

Carmine had been here.

He’d been in this place with all these other trolls. Somehow. Had Carmine seen him? Had he seen him killing and destroying everybody else? Was he dead too? Was he dead because of the Psiioniic? What if he was still alive but hated him now, hated him because he killed lowblooded trolls, his own caste, because he listened to seatrolls and wasn’t strong enough to say “no” or resist in any way….

The Psiioniic held out his hand. “Can I…Dualscar, would it be okay if I…had that?”

Dualscar could not have looked more perplexed. “…What in the fuck for? Do you even know what this is?”

“I just…I just want it. Please?”

Dualscar shook his head and tossed the cloth back to the other seatroll. “Shit, he’s getting fucking delirious now. I have to get him back so he can sleep this off.”

The seatroll nodded and carelessly tossed the rag into a nearby fire. The dark silhouette burned up quickly, the aroma mixing in with the scent of smoke and blood and death clouding them from all sides.


	13. Intermezzo - Reflect

They had found the hidden town almost entirely by accident. The greenblood huntress had mentioned hearing of something like it, though even she wasn’t sure if it truly existed, or where it might be. She, Carmine, and the Dolorosa had been heading up the coast for several nights, for no particular reason, though Carmine resisted any mention of heading further inland to avoid seatrolls. The Dolorosa didn’t need to guess why.

The trolls in the hidden village were a bit wary of the Dolorosa on account of her blood color, as it was more than a little uncommon to see a jadeblood outside of the caverns. She guessed she didn’t blame them. But they accepted the three of them without much more fuss. She wouldn’t allow Carmine to divulge his true blood color, not even among these trolls. If anyone asked, she told him, he was just a redblood. Not candy red; not a…mutant. Just red.

He didn’t really like being forced into anonymity, especially not just when he was going among other trolls for the first time, but he listened to her.

It only took one night for the Dolorosa to find out that Carmine had been telling others about his dream.

It started with the younger wrigglers, the ones around the same age as Carmine and the huntress. Many of them were orphans, without lususes, and they told other trolls, older trolls, and almost inexplicably, they listened.

But then the seatrolls came.

It was quick, so quick. And messy. There was no time to try to save anybody. The Dolorosa was only barely able to ensure that Carmine and the huntress were with her when she ran. Their only option was to hide. It had been such a blur, such a panic, there had been trolls everywhere and they were all so covered in different shades of blood it was impossible to tell who was an enemy and who was a victim.

The Dolorosa was horrified to find Carmine bleeding, once they were safely hidden in an isolated grotto outside of the village.

“What happened, love?” she asked, trying not to look frantic as she futilely attempted to hide the color from the huntress.

“It’s okay, Rosa,” Carmine mumbled in response as she scrubbed away the blood pouring down his arm. “She knows. I told her.”

“Oh….” The Dolorosa deflated a bit. The greenblood wriggler wasn’t saying anything. She was only watching them, something unreadable in her eyes.

“…Rosa is it because of me?” Carmine asked as the Dolorosa removed his shredded cloak, anxiously inspecting the wide rip where a chunk had been torn loose. “Was it because I told everybody?”

“No, Carmine,” the Dolorosa replied somewhat mindlessly, lying the cloak on the floor. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But they were all okay before we got there,” he mumbled in response. “They were all okay, they had been for a really long time, and then I got there and I told them about everything and then this happened.”

“Don’t think like that, love. It couldn’t have been anything you did.”

“There were psionics out there,” the greenblood spoke up suddenly. Carmine turned to look at her, and he still couldn’t tell what she was thinking. “At least one, anyway. It was killing a lot of them.”

Carmine scowled. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying I hope it wasn’t your psionic.” She frowned. “Because most of the trolls that died were ones that got caught in his way.”

“It _wasn’t_ him,” Carmine insisted, almost growling. “He wouldn’t do _anything_ like this! Or if he did…if he did it was because they _made_ him. He wouldn’t ever do anything like this because he wanted to so shut up!”

“That’s quite enough,” said the Dolorosa, her voice tired, worn, but stern. The huntress turned away, her little face blushing green, and Carmine refused to look at her either. “It’s nobody’s fault. It’s the way things are.”

There was a tense silence in between all of three of them. The Dolorosa tore of pieces of Carmine’s ruined cloak and used them as makeshift bandages for his injury. She cleaned him up as best she could with what she had, but the blood color was still too visible for her liking.

Out of nowhere, Carmine gasped deeply and all the color drained from his face.

“What is it?” the Dolorosa asked, startled.

“Where….” He began searching the grotto floor frantically, jumping to his feet and turning every which way. “Where is it!?”

“Where’s what?”

“My—the Psiioniic’s…Rosa I didn’t _leave_ it back there, did I?”

“I, um….” The Dolorosa futilely scanned the ground for any sign of the faded yellow garment. She hadn’t seen it since the night before.

“Have…have you seen it?” Carmine asked the huntress. She only shook her head half-heartedly. He looked at the Dolorosa, his face contorted in complete horror. “…I lost it,” he said, his voice small.

“…I’m so sorry, love.”

“It was all I had of him.” He slumped back down onto the ground. “It was all I had.”

The Dolorosa gently took hold of Carmine’s arm again and finished wrapping up the wound. “It wasn’t _all_ you had, Carmine,” she told him. “You still have your memories of him, your love for him, don’t you? I know you loved that little yellow shirt but that’s all it really was, Carmine: just a piece of clothing. The fact that you’ve lost it doesn’t change a thing about what you feel for him. He won’t be upset with you. He certainly won’t blame you for it.”

Her little wriggler was quiet until she had finished the wrapping. “…I guess,” he murmured.

He was still a child. He couldn’t understand, not the way he needed to. For now—for a while—he would blame himself for all this. Blame himself for the seatroll attack, blame himself for losing the Psiioniic’s keepsake, blame himself that the Psiioniic wasn’t with him at all. The Dolorosa couldn’t fix any of that. She could explain to him all she wanted about how those things simply weren’t true but they wouldn’t do any good if he didn’t believe her.

Nobody felt like doing much of anything the rest of the day. The three of them laid close together in the grotto, waiting for the sounds outside to completely die away, ignoring their hunger and anxiety, because all they needed was to see the moon rise the next night. Once they managed that, then they would work on the rest.

\---

The huntress awoke as soon as Carmine got up. She was so attuned to every movement, so aware of everything that changed in her environment, that it was an automatic response. The Dolorosa remained sleeping, but the little wriggler listlessly rose to his feet, shambling over to the small opening in the rock. He sat down outside, in the fading sunlight, and was motionless.

She contemplated it for a moment, but then decided to get up. She stood, going over to sit next to him, and he didn’t react at her arrival at all. For a moment they were silent, just sitting beside one another, watching the orange light of the burning sun tear across the sky.

“Sorry I said that stuff about the Psiioniic,” she started off.

He shrugged and shook his head. He was looking down at his hand again. There was some kind of scar there, and he always seemed to get really fixated on it when he was upset or thinking about something. She didn’t know why. She wasn’t sure if it was even appropriate to ask.

“I didn’t mean it,” she added meekly.

“I know,” he replied. “It’s okay.”

“You know…” she started to say, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth she wished she hadn’t decided to speak, because this wasn’t something she thought she should say, but she was already into it….

“I think,” she continued, “that whatever you and your psionic have must be really special, because I’ve seen the way you get about him.”

Carmine turned to look at her as she talked, and she found herself unable to look him in the eye.

“And I think that’s great! Don’t get me wrong or anything. I mean, you get all flustered when we talk about him and I think that’s really cute—cute that you like him so much I mean. But at the same time, it’s like…we don’t really know where he is and I know you get upset about that, and…well, I just wish you didn’t have to worry about him all the time.”

“…Yeah,” Carmine replied. “I wish I didn’t have to either. Because matesprits are supposed to be together all the time, and I _am_ supposed to worry about him but like…I wish I could worry about him when he’s right next to me, you know? Instead of not seeing him every day. That’s the kind of worrying I want to do…if that makes sense.”

“It does,” she said. “But I don’t like seeing you sad. I wish you could relax a little bit.” She shoved him playfully. “So if you ever wanna talk about him or anything, just let me know, okay? I like listening to you.”

“You mean like…like a moirail or something?” Carmine asked.

She giggled. “Well we don’t have to get all formal about it like that, but sure! And like, if you ever needed a hug or anything, it’s okay if you want to hug me.”

Carmine looked a bit unsure, and she quietly added, “If it’d make you feel better you can pretend I’m him. When we hug.”

“That doesn’t seem nice. To think about somebody else instead of you.”

“Well…if you ever think it’d help, I’m here.”

“…There was one thing I wanted to ask you.”

“What’s that?”

Carmine sat up a bit. “I was thinking…I’ve been having more and more dreams lately and I can’t always remember the ones I’ve told people and the ones I haven’t. I was thinking maybe I should start trying to write them down or something. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

She nodded excitedly. “Oh yeah! We should definitely do that!”

He smiled a little. “Okay. We’ll do that then.”

“I could write it for you,” she offered. “So you can concentrate on just talking, because that’s what you do best.”

“All right.” He leaned over and put his arms around her in a grateful hug. “Thanks.”

“Hee hee…no problem.”

She began to pull away but Carmine refused to end the embrace that quickly. “I just want to let you know also,” he said, “that even though I talk about and think about the Psiioniic a lot, you’re my friend too. And you’re important to me too.”

“…Thanks,” she said, her voice smaller. “Thanks, Carmine. You’re a really…a really nice troll.”


	14. Loss

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, Dualscar was shithive raging drunk again.

They’d been anchored here for almost eight nights by now. The seatrolls had all but taken over this tiny harbor town by now in their extended stay, but even they were growing bored with so much free reign. There was only so much havoc to wreak in a tiny place like this, and they were itching for someplace new.

A handful of bluebloods and seatrolls had left about a sweep ago, having had enough of Dualscar’s inevitable downward spiral. Dualscar had been able to stop it from becoming a full-blown mutiny, but his crew had still shrunk to about half its size. And now, even the seatrolls that had stayed were getting restless and exasperated.

The Blood Purge from several sweeps back had been deemed a success, with the culled numbers higher than the previous one, and the troll race was suitably purified for another couple of sweeps. There was a celebration held at the palace of Her Imperious Condescension, where the trolls who she determined had served her best would be publicly rewarded. Dualscar had been like a schoolfed grub for weeks over it. He was certain that she would personally thank him for smoking out the hidden village. In his mind, they were already matesprits over the whole ordeal. The Psiioniic had never seen him so happy.

The Psiioniic himself hadn’t been allowed to attend, as Dualscar didn’t want to be watching him all night, nor did he want to risk anybody potentially grubnapping his prized psionic weapon. The arrangement was fine with the Psiioniic, who spent that night and day in Dualscar’s respiteblock with occasional brief visits from some surly blueblood who brought him food.

When Dualscar came back, the Psiioniic immediately knew that the affair hadn’t gone as he’d planned. Not in the least.

He hadn’t been able to determine that day exactly why Dualscar was so upset, as the seatroll was already completely plastered and incoherent when he’d returned. Dualscar had been screaming at him, shaking him and blaming him for losing everything, blaming him for not doing well enough, blaming him for being a failure of a servant when he was supposed to bring Dualscar glory….

Later on, the Psiioniic heard, from whispered conversations from the other seatrolls, what had happened.

Apparently, another troll had quelled an enormous rebellion that had been brewing in the south, one that was so well hushed-up that none of the highbloods had even suspected it. The force of lowbloods that had been built up was enough to easily overtake some of the more populous cities, and once they had that foothold, it would have taken a fortune in resources and manpower to stomp it out.

But this troll, some blueblood named Darkleer, had found it first, had studied it, had taken his own force of trolls out to slaughter them off guard and publicly execute their leaders. Apparently the entire rebellion force had been routed.

Everything Dualscar had done was completely ignored by the Condesce in favor of this tremendous service to the empire, and Darkleer had been given accolades upon accolades.

It took him a few perigees to recover, but even now he still wasn’t over it. The seatrolls still ravaged the coast, still killed lower-blooded trolls at their discretion, still plundered and destroyed and looted. The Psiioniic still helped them. Only now there would be episodes where Dualscar went into a drinking frenzy for nights and nights.

Everyone learned fairly quickly that the Psiioniic was the only troll on board that Dualscar would let near him during one of his…moments. The only troll who could approach him without immediately being culled.

And so, as usual, the Psiioniic stood outside of Dualscar’s respiteblock, which they no longer shared, and listened to him crying and raging inside. He took in a deep breath, let it out again. He was so, so tired of this.

He burst inside and barely caught a bottle flying straight for him with his psionics.

“Will you go the _fuck_ away?!” Dualscar demanded, his garbled words almost at the point of incomprehension. “I want to wallow, you fucking pissblood.”

“You’re not going to have anything left to drink here soon, you know,” the Psiioniic replied, unfazed by the slur. “You’ve just about fucking had it _all_.” He kicked an empty bottle by his feet. “And your seatrolls have pretty much sucked that town dry out there.”

“Unless you came in here to suck _me_ , I don’t want to hear about it.” Dualscar slumped down at the table and laid his head down in his hands.

“You know very well I don’t give a shit if you drink yourself dead,” the Psiioniic replied, stooping down to pick up a few of the empty bottles on the floor. “But all the others are fucking bugging the shit out of me to get you to come out. So we can maybe do something profitable with our time again?”

Dualscar only grumbled and peered out at him. The Psiioniic frowned and began to pick up a few more bottles, but as he leaned over to grab one he felt Dualscar’s claw snatch onto the waist of his pants.

“Fucking… _thtop_!” he shouted, turning around and punching Dualscar in the arm. “ _Fuck!_ You’re fucking pathetic!!”

Dualscar grinned, jumping to his feet and grabbing the Psiioniic by his upper arms. “I love it when you talk back…” he breathed more than said, alcoholic fumes tumbling out of his mouth as he brought his face up close to the Psiioniic’s. The Psiioniic’s hands flared red and blue and he shoved Dualscar away as roughly as he dared. Dualscar stumbled backward, staying upright in spite of his inebriation, and grinned wider.

“Yeah…” he said, stepping closer again. “You never did get the hang of obeying your master, now did you?”

The Psiioniic sneered at him. They both knew who would win in a fight. It had come to that many times, and Dualscar had the bruises on his face to prove it.

“Tell you what,” Dualscar said, staring the Psiioniic directly in his defiant eyes, “I’ll come out of this fuckin’ room, I’ll stop drinkin’ this fucking awful stuff, hell, I’ll even sail us to a new place where we can pillage until we get off on it. I’ll do all that…if you just give me what I want.”

“Fuck you,” the Psiioniic snarled, resisting the urge to actually spit in his face.

Dualscar grabbed the front of the Psiioniic’s shirt, and at the same time, red and blue energy flared from the Psiioniic’s eyes, a warning.

“I’m not your damn kismesis, Dualscar,” the Psiioniic told him. “Go see Mindfang if that’s what you want, but _stop_ this.”

“Damn right you’re not my kismesis.” Dualscar grabbed him with the other hand and pulled him closer. “But there’s nobody around to stop us, now is there?”

The Psiioniic scowled. Even the other seatrolls had been able to tell for a while now. Their weak, one-sided moirallegiance had flipped ashen almost a sweep after Dualscar’s breakdown, and they were in desperate need of an auspistice. But nobody had the spine to even begin to mediate between them. Their black fights were notorious for being so loud and violent that it was a wonder Dualscar’s ship hadn’t sunk by now from all the psionics.

“So why don’t you just be a good little slave,” Dualscar continued, “and do what I tell you, hmm?”

“You know I could kill you right now,” the Psiioniic growled back. “And you know I don’t give a shit if I get culled because of it.”

“Yes you do. Because then you’d never see your little matesprit again.” He laughed.

“My matesprit’s _dead_.” The psionics flared brighter.

“Yeah, but you don’t believe that. You never did.” When the Psiioniic didn’t say anything to that, Dualscar leaned in and gave him a rough, invasive kiss. The Psiioniic tried to push him away again, but Dualscar only grabbed onto his wrists and held them forcefully down by his sides.

“Just a little bit,” Dualscar said as he pulled away. “Just let your master have a little bit.”

The Psiioniic was too angry to do anything in response. His hands were shaking with suppressed rage, because physically Dualscar could always overpower him, the only way the Psiioniic ever gained the upper hand was with his mental energies. He was so tired of playing this game with Dualscar. So tired of constantly having to force him away, of constantly having to grubsit him, making sure he didn’t kill himself and wishing he would die all at the same time.

“Say my name with that cute little lisp of yours,” Dualscar said softly. “Go ahead, I won’t get angry.”

“…Bulgethucker,” the Psiioniic replied, exaggerating the impediment as much as he was able.

Before he could process what was happening, Dualscar drove his knee up into the Psiioniic’s stomach, knocking the breath out of him and bringing them both crashing down to the floor. As the Psiioniic gasped for air, Dualscar pinned his wrists down to the floor on either side of his head, leaning in close, close enough that every breath the Psiioniic inhaled was a cloud of ale-drenched exhalation from the seatroll.

“You’re so fucking irritating,” Dualscar growled, his eyes flashing with excitement. “And so fucking exciting. When I bought you I couldn’t _wait_ for the day you got older, because I’m no grubfucker, I don’t do perverse shit like that, but I knew, I _knew_ you’d grow up to be something really special, just the troll I needed….”

The Psiioniic had never hated anybody in his whole life as much as he despised Dualscar, and even without the psionics the air in the room was scathingly electric.

Dualscar was borderline rambling now, snatching up kisses in between words, shoving his slick seatroll tongue as far back into the Psiioniic’s mouth as he could. “But as fucking much as you drive me crazy, _you’re_ still a lowblood, and I’m still your master. And your master says, you lay there real quiet like, and let me do whatever the fuck I want until I’m done, you got it?”

The Psiioniic refused to answer. It made Dualscar more aggravated if he didn’t say anything. They were always small victories.

“Otherwise,” Dualscar continued, narrowing his eyes dangerously, “I’m going to have to get my knife back out and draw some more pretty pictures on you, would you like that?”

The Psiioniic took in a slow, deep breath, refusing to break eye contact with him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.” Dualscar leaned his ear in towards the Psiioniic’s mouth. The Psiioniic resisted the urge to bite it. “I said, would you like that?”

“…No,” he conceded. “No, I wouldn’t like that.”

“Then we’ve reached an agreement.” Dualscar grinned with his shark teeth and the Psiioniic didn’t do anything. “When we’re done here, I promise I’ll come out of my respiteblock and sail us somewhere else, all right?”

“…All right.”

Sometimes it was just easier to let him have his way. Sometimes it was easier to indulge him, for just a little while, because it kept him satisfied until the next time he lost his damn mind. It didn’t make it feel any less wrong, any less enraging to have his seatroll lips on his own, the ones that didn’t feel or taste like Carmine at all….

The Psiioniic shut his eyes and tensed. He tried not to think about Carmine anymore. It had been almost five sweeps since they last saw each other. He didn’t even know if Carmine was still alive. He doubted it. Not with the way the purge had gone.

He’d tried to forget Carmine so many times. Tried to force the image of his face out of his mind, tried to push away the sound of his voice and his laugh, because it would make it easier, so much easier, to accept the fact that he wasn’t coming back. But every time the Psiioniic tried to burn the memory out, it just embedded itself deeper. He couldn’t forget, not a single thing.

And what was worse, a part of him believed that Carmine was still alive, existing somewhere on Alternia right this moment. That thought was nigh unbearable.

So he just laid there, let Dualscar kiss him and run his hands all over his body, and didn’t say anything, didn’t resist or tell him to fuck off. Eventually, Dualscar would have his fill, he’d get up, and the Psiioniic would get up, and then everything would go back to The Way Things Were.

\---

Dualscar finally did get his shit somewhat together long enough to gather up his seatrolls and set sail again. The Psiioniic had a hard time doing much of anything besides sitting in his respiteblock and watch the waves go by his little window. He thought about Carmine most during this time of the sweep. Probably because it reminded him of the time when they’d met.

Whatever the reason was, it was a stupid thing to be doing. It only made him miserable, only made him think about something that was gone and wasn’t going to come back. It was better to stop the thoughts before he got lost in the memories. Better to move on. Better to forget.

They stopped in another port town a few nights later, a significantly larger one. Having drunk all the alcohol on the ship during his binge, Dualscar had been undergoing an understandable bit of withdrawal during the entire journey, and couldn’t get off the ship fast enough to go buy some more.

The Psiioniic went with him, as always, partly because nobody else was willing to spend any alone time with Dualscar, and partly as a display of wealth. Dualscar had at least altered that much: psionics were rare enough now that to own one was something to flaunt proudly. Their numbers would grow again, in time, but as for now, the Psiioniic was rare goods. Dualscar wouldn’t have it any other way.

“My god,” Dualscar sneered as they walked through the crowded street. “Look at all these lowblood landdwellers. Just breathing their air is making me gag.”

“I know exactly what that feeling is like, sir,” the Psiioniic replied wryly. Dualscar glared at him but let the remark pass.

“I doubt they even have anything good here worth taking. It’s probably just— _fuck!_ ” Carelessly, Dualscar bumped up against another troll walking the opposite direction, completely knocking from his hand a small bouquet of flowers he’d been carrying.

“Fucking landdwellers!” Dualscar exclaimed, storming off without a word to the troll he’d unintentionally accosted. The Psiioniic stared after him, scowling in disbelief.

“Sorry,” he offered meekly to the troll, who was already on the ground gathering up the flowers. The Psiioniic knelt down and did the same. “That guy’s an asshole.”

The other troll, completely covered in gray clothing, laughed softly. “It’s all right,” he replied. “No reason to get worked up over it.”

“ _Grub!_ ” came Dualscar’s distant voice, impatiently calling him. The Psiioniic sighed. He and the other troll stood up.

“Thanks for your help,” said the stranger, and the Psiioniic nodded in response, and the troll began to walk away, lifting a hand to wave goodbye and—

… _No…._

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?!” Dualscar demanded, reappearing and grabbing the Psiioniic by the arm. “Are you trying to humiliate me in public?”

The Psiioniic wasn’t listening. Frantically, he searched the crowd, trying to find the grey cloak again, but it seemed like every troll here was wearing grey, where was it, where had it gone….

“What the hell are you _staring_ at?” Dualscar said, yanking the Psiioniic forcibly along behind him.

The Psiioniic didn’t hear him. He easily broke out of Dualscar’s grip and started to push his way through the crowd, started to run away, completely ignored Dualscar’s enraged shouting from behind him, ignored every other troll around him, tried to shut out every other image from his sight except the one of an anonymous grey troll carrying flowers….

He seemed to have disappeared. The Psiioniic came to a intersection in the road, having lost complete sight of him, and he looked frantically down both sides, trying to pick out what he was looking for, but where was he, where _was_ he, every second he sat there dumbly not knowing which way to go he was walking further away….

 _There_. Going up the street to the right. The Psiioniic pushed past more people, ignoring the bluebloods he accidentally shoved, the highbloods he dared touch, and began to run up the street, keeping him in his sights, determined not to look away, not for anything, not for a second.

And then he stopped. The Psiioniic halted in his tracks, several feet away, and just watched. Two other trolls were coming up to meet him. One was—oh god he’d forgotten how beautiful she was, how tall and how graceful—the Dolorosa. Aged a bit, but still the same troll, the same loving lusus, the same beautiful jade green eyes.

And the other troll, another greenblood, another female, he didn’t recognize. She was shorter than the Dolorosa, closer to his own age, with wild masses of hair and fangs that glinted playfully in the moonlight. For a second the Psiioniic’s breath caught. The flowers…they weren’t for that troll, were they?

But no…he was handing them to the Dolorosa. She looked overcome, so happy, and she grabbed him up in an embrace. The Psiioniic let his held breath out. And smiled in spite of himself. Carmine had just been buying flowers for his lusus. They were still together after this long. Still loved one another. That was good. That was good, there was nothing to worry ab—

Carmine turned to the greenblood troll and kissed her.

The Psiioniic felt the whole world spin underneath him.

It had just been a mistake, hadn’t it? He’d just misinterpreted that, he’d seen it wrong….

Carmine and the greenblood were holding hands as the three of them walked away. The Psiioniic watched them go with horrified resignation, frozen in place where he stood.

 _You have no right to be upset_ , he told himself. _No fucking right at all. You wanted to lose him, and you lost him. That’s what you get. That’s what you get for not believing him. He forgot you, just like you wanted to forget him._

Suddenly Dualscar was there, and he grabbed the back of the Psiioniic’s collar, yanking him back and choking him all at once. He was livid.

“You fucking insolent wriggler, you fucking lowblood slave shit, how dare you, how _fucking_ dare you do something like this….”

The Psiioniic barely heard any of it. Only half-listened to the threats of what Dualscar was going to do when they got back to ship, only half-cared about all the insults and slurs coming out of Dualscar’s mouth. For the first time in sweeps, all he could think about was crying.

Dualscar was grabbing the Psiioniic’s horns, shaking and screaming at him, making a scene in the middle of the street, drawing attention and encouragement from other highbloods and seatrolls who passed, and the Psiioniic just let him expend all his energy. Let him say whatever he wanted. He wasn’t listening anyway. There really wasn’t anything Dualscar could do or say that would catch his attention now.

 _You deserve it. You deserve this,_ came the barrage of thoughts. _You didn’t believe him. You gave up on him. You stopped being matesprits as soon as you made that choice. He owes you nothing. Nothing._


	15. Awakening

The fact that Carmine was alive did not make the Psiioniic happy. It should have, by all rights, but all it did was make everything make even less sense than before. Now it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t simple anymore, the Psiioniic wasn’t just a troll who had lost his matesprit sweeps ago. Now he was a troll who had lost faith in the only troll to care about him, and was selfish enough to want him back after such emotional infidelity.

The Psiioniic almost wished that Dualscar would want to leave this town as soon as they arrived, just so he wouldn’t have an excuse, just so he could be apart from Carmine again. Because he knew how to deal with that. He knew how to miss him more than he knew how to go back to him. Which he could never do now. The Psiioniic didn’t know who that greenblood troll was and he didn’t want to know. He knew there were other quadrants that kissed, but no way in hell was that female Carmine’s kismesis. The Psiioniic didn’t think Carmine even knew how to hate somebody like that.

But Dualscar didn’t want to leave. After the Psiioniic had so insolently run away from him in the street, they’d gone back to the ship, and Dualscar had left him there, shut up in his respiteblock, declaring that he’d get his punishment later that day. The Psiioniic hardly cared. It was sure to turn into another fight, one the Psiioniic would probably win, and then Dualscar would leave him alone again until the next time he got bored or restless.

Dualscar and some of his seatrolls had gone back out after that, to do their drinking in a bar somewhere, which, given precedence, would probably end up either burned down or half-destroyed by the end of the day.

There was still plenty of moonlight left. The Psiioniic looked out his window, which happened to be facing the harbor, and tried to hope that Carmine had left town already. Just so he could convince himself to stay inside. So he’d have a good reason to not break out and try to find him. After all, where would he even start looking? It was such a big place…no, he’d never find him.

He sat there, agonizing over whether to go or stay, over whether it would be worth it to even try, if he was just prolonging his torment by even _considering_ doing this, if not knowing would be better….

Before he could think anything else, he found himself blowing out the window in his respiteblock and leaping out over the water, levitating himself in midair with his psionics and rushing towards land.

\---

He wasn’t afraid of running into Dualscar. He wasn’t even afraid of not making it back to the ship before him, if he and the seatrolls even came back that day. There was just no number large enough to convey the shits he did not give, because hell, Carmine was somewhere in this city, he was _alive_ and he was somewhere the Psiioniic could _get_ to. The Psiioniic didn’t care if it ended up being a mistake, a disaster…he just had to see him. It’d been too long, so long. He had to see him.

To start, he went back to the place where he’d seen him last. Yes, it was a longshot, but it was all he had. He wandered up and down the road, walking past the little shop that the Dolorosa and the greenblood had come out of, as if they’d suddenly reappear there, but there was nothing. Just endless crowds of trolls, none of them his troll.

Maybe they were trying to keep a bit of a low profile. The Psiioniic ventured further, more into the inner city, the outskirts of the slums, keeping an eye out for any grey cloaks. There were none here. No, every troll wore their blood color emblazoned on their clothing, signs clear for everyone to see. A troll with no sign and no color should be easy to find…for a brief moment the Psiioniic considered asking around, but if Carmine didn’t want attention drawn to him, perhaps that wasn’t the best thing to do….

He’d been searching for almost three hours. He found nothing. He’d made his way farther into the ghetto by now, full of redbloods and orangebloods that avoided his gaze because even though he was of their caste, he was still a psionic and psionics were known for being the pets of highbloods. Nobody wanted his attention. Nobody wanted him to look at them, just in case, just to be safe….

The Psiioniic slumped against a nearby wall. Why exactly was he putting himself through this…Carmine hadn’t even recognized him on the street. Yeah, Carmine’s hood had been drawn up pretty far but still, shouldn’t he have known, shouldn’t he at least have looked twice, or reacted….

No. No, he’d forgotten. It was understandable. Forgivable. Expected. The Psiioniic stood up straight again, deciding to go back to the ship. A pair of younger trolls, each about six sweeps old, rushed past him in the opposite direction.

“Come on, hurry _up_!” one insisted.

“I still think this is stupid…” the other replied, letting herself be dragged along by the hand.

“No, believe me, this guy’ll change your life. At least come listen to him this one time with me, and then I’ll stop asking, okay?”

The female sighed heavily. “Didn’t you say he goes around not wearing his sign or blood color or anything? That’s the kind of thing bluebloods get mad about….”

“Man, fuck the highbloods.” He ignored her affronted gasp. “Come on, you seriously won’t regret this.”

She didn’t protest further as he dragged her away. The Psiioniic stared after them, his heart stubbornly refusing to beat for a few instants, and then his feet were carrying him away. Following them. Going where they were going, because where they were headed was…it had to be….

He tried to keep a respectful distance from them so they wouldn’t think they were being followed. They went down a sidestreet, into an alley, and disappeared behind a door into an abandoned, though large, building. The Psiioniic waited a moment, anxiety and nervousness wreaking havoc through him. He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

It was a dim room, full of trolls and low murmurs. Several of them looked his way when the door opened, but once the cursory glance was over they went back to their hushed whispers. None of them asked him any questions or chased him out. Some even…smiled at him. Gave him an approving nod. Not sure how to respond, he only gave back a small grin, and that seemed to be polite enough.

He scanned the crowd for any sign of Carmine, or the Dolorosa, or even that other greenblood. He didn’t see any of them, was this the right spot—

—wait…wait, was that her? The Dolorosa was on the other side of the room, talking with some other troll a bit older than her, laughing, deeply entrenched in conversation. The Psiioniic’s heart lifted. Carmine was definitely here, he was here in this room, in this place, they were close now….

The faint hum of the crowd began to hush, and all the trolls began to look expectantly towards the front of the room. The Psiioniic turned as well and could have fallen down from sheer shock.

There he was. It was him…Carmine, standing at the front of the room, and everybody was giving him their full attention.

The Psiioniic didn’t hear almost any of what he said to begin with. His mind was reeling, sweeps and sweeps of unknown thoughts and emotions spinning around in his head.

He didn’t look exactly the same—of course, he’d grown up considerably. It was like his face was more serious now, all his naivety having gone away with time and age, but there was still something…familiar in him. Something that hadn’t disappeared, something that never could.

Sound came back to the Psiioniic’s senses, once the initial incredulity wore off, and he realized what was the same.

Carmine was talking about his dream. That was what all these trolls were here for, to listen to him speak about it. He was telling them about old Alternia, peaceful Alternia, about how blood didn’t have to dictate worth or value or whether you got to live or be culled. How trolls of lower castes didn’t have to distrust one another or steal from one another or worry about being betrayed for the favor of a highblood. And he spoke about not…about not hating the highbloods. Not hating seatrolls or bluebloods or anyone. Every troll had a right to compassion, to sympathy, there was no reason that destructive hate should come from any side.

And he spoke so well. The Psiioniic grinned in spite of himself, remembering how Carmine had used to rant and ramble as if he didn’t need to take a breath, as if nothing could pass without comment. It was so easy for him to talk. So easy for him to put his thoughts into words, and words that people would listen to. That they could relate to. Every troll in the room was listening. They were compelled by the strength of his voice alone.

His _voice_ …that had changed as well. It was deeper, stronger, an authoritative yet empathetic sound. The Psiioniic could still hear the traces of a child within it, but most of all he could hear the conviction of one who spoke the truth.

The Psiioniic’s eyes never left Carmine throughout the entire sermon. He couldn’t believe how vivid his dreams must have become if he was still having them after all this time. And look at how many trolls were hear to listen to them, to the words that bordered on heresy, on treason…and look how many of them didn’t care. How many were willing to defy the ones that could destroy them with a glance, just to hear this, just to know it was possible, that a good Alternia _could_ exist.

At some point, it ended. The Psiioniic didn’t know how long it had gone on, but he wished it didn’t ever have to. Because it meant that Carmine stopped talking…and it meant that now he’d have to decide. Whether to stay and see him, or leave and forget him.

He made himself scarce in a far corner of the room. It took a considerable amount of time for all the trolls to shuffle out. It looked like they were leaving in scattered waves, so they wouldn’t draw attention to the large amount of lowbloods leaving from one area. The Dolorosa and Carmine and the greenblood were all taking the time to talk with anyone who wanted to see them. None of them noticed him. He preferred it that way.

The more he waited, the more he felt his resolve weakening. What if Carmine really didn’t recognize him? What if he’d really forgotten, what if the Psiioniic made a complete fool of himself trying to make him remember?

The number of trolls in the room was getting smaller. With every new bunch that left, the room got quieter, and the deciding time drew nearer. The Psiioniic stared down at the floor, his mind completely empty for what he would say to Carmine. If he was brave enough to say anything at all.

He heard footsteps approaching him. He tensed up, refused to raise his eyes, what could he say, what could he possibly say, there was nothing….

“You’ve been quiet.” The Psiioniic looked up. It was Carmine, smiling down at him, but it wasn’t a smile for the Psiioniic. It was a smile for a stranger, somebody he didn’t know.

“…I just…happened upon all this,” the Psiioniic replied, feeling like the words came out by themselves. Every second that Carmine looked at him and didn’t react was like having Dualscar’s knife dragged across his skin. “…Thought I’d see what was going on.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” Carmine said. “We try not to meet more than a few times in the same place, but if you keep your ear to the ground you’ll know where to find us.”

“…Right.” It was getting hard to speak. Carmine really didn’t know him. There was nothing resembling recognition in those eyes. The Psiioniic got to his feet, trying to force back the stiff lump in his throat, averting his eyes.

“Well…thankth,” he said, mentally cursing his lisp. “But I don’t know if I can come again.”

“Oh.” A pause. “That’s too bad. Maybe we’ll meet again somewhere else.”

“…Y-yeah. Maybe.” He looked up and Carmine was holding out his hand. The Psiioniic took it, giving him a quick handshake to say goodbye, and quickly turned to go. He couldn’t stay here one more second.

But Carmine didn’t let go of his hand. The Psiioniic turned back, saying feebly, “Um…pardon, but….”

Carmine was staring down at the Psiioniic’s hand. At the X-shaped scar. His eyes were wide in an unnamable expression. He was beyond words.

He looked up, at the Psiioniic, and his lips moved dumbly for a moment before he managed to say, “…It’s you…Psiioniic, it’s really….”

The biggest smile flashed onto Carmine’s face and he threw his arms around the Psiioniic, completely jumped straight into his arms, sending them both falling ungracefully to the ground. The Psiioniic was disoriented, too dazed to move or react but all he could tell was that Carmine was laughing, laughing and smiling and crying and saying, “Psiioniic, oh my god, you’re alive, you’re alive and you’re here, I can’t believe it….”

The Psiioniic snapped out of his flustered haze long enough to return the embrace, and he held on as tightly as he could with his small arms. The last time he’d held Carmine had been long ago, so, so long ago, behind the little rock in the canyon a lifetime away. It felt the same, just exactly the same, and it was familiar, it was right, it was home.

For now, the Psiioniic didn’t worry about what Carmine would think when he told him he’d given up. He didn’t worry about the greenblood, who was seeing this, and he didn’t worry about Dualscar, who would know he’d run away. There was nothing _to_ worry about, any cares he had didn’t exist. Right now, here, embracing Carmine again on a dusty floor, was absolutely perfect.


	16. The Signless

It was the kind of excitement you got from seeing something truly impossible. The otherworldly ecstasy made possible only by receiving the greatest fortune, the most wonderful, undeserved gift. Carmine didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this. How he could possibly be deemed worthy enough to have his matesprit returned to him. After he’d been such a terrible matesprit himself.

At some point, the moment ended, and their embrace ended. Carmine pulled back to look at the Psiioniic’s face and he couldn’t believe how _different_ he looked now. The Psiioniic had always had that shadow of distrust in his eyes, but still with a small glimmer of belief, of hope that maybe he had everyone all wrong. But that hope was gone now. He wasn’t the same, not in that way. He wasn’t unsure of himself anymore.

But had he gotten stronger…or weaker? Was that unfamiliar hardness in his eyes a grim confidence, or was it a wall, a stronghold of defense against everything? Carmine couldn’t tell. He tried not to make it obvious how much it unsettled him.

“How are you even…” Carmine stammered, “how did you end up _here_?”

The Psiioniic smiled. “I guess I was supposed to find you.”

Carmine could barely contain his grin as he jumped up to his feet, extending a hand and pulling the Psiioniic up too. He turned to the Dolorosa and said, “Rosa! Rosa, it’s the Psiioniic!”

“I…I see that, love,” the Dolorosa replied, her face glowing jade green as she struggled to hold back ecstatic tears. She came forward and pulled him into a hug. They were about the same height now. “Goodness, you’ve gotten so _big_!” she giggled.

“This is your Psiioniic?” came a new voice, an unfamiliar one. The Psiioniic released the Dolorosa and turned, seeing the greenblood staring at him with wide, excited eyes. She rushed up to him, grabbing both his hands excitedly.

“I’ve heard so much about you!” she exclaimed giddily. “And you—you came back, you two found each other again, it’s so…oh my _god_ , so _perfect_!”

Carmine giggled, reddening a bit at her enthusiasm and the Psiioniic’s perplexed look. “Sorry, she tends to glorify stories of us in her mind.”

“…Oh.” The Psiioniic was feeling more and more confused about her by the second. Was she Carmine’s new matesprit or wasn’t she? She didn’t seem… _mad_ at the earlier display.

“I’m sorry,” she said, releasing her hold on him quickly. “I didn’t introduce myself! You can call me the Disciple. It’s the name the Signless gave me.” She extended a hand, and the Psiioniic took it, puzzled.

“…Signless?” he asked.

“Oh!” she said. “Yes, him.” She gestured over at Carmine. “Yeah, we decided to change his name to something more people could relate to once we started with the sermons. Because you know, like, trolls don’t really _need_ signs or colors in order to have a social identity, that kind of thing. And we didn’t exactly want to draw attention to ourselves with having his name be the color of…unnatural blood.”

“…Oh.” There was a silence, and the Psiioniic couldn’t quite place why he felt so uncomfortable at that moment. Carmine—the Signless was looking at him expectantly, as if he was supposed to say something now, but whatever unspoken thing was going on right now was completely lost on the Psiioniic….

“Well,” the Dolorosa spoke up suddenly—if she was intentionally breaking the odd silence or not, the Psiioniic wasn’t sure, but he was endlessly relieved for her intervention— “we were planning on going out for a midnight meal after the meeting, would you like to come along, Psiioniic?”

“Um….”

“Oh come on!” the Signless exclaimed, childlike fervor permeating into his adult’s voice. He threw his arm around the Psiioniic’s shoulders. “You have to show me all the cool stuff you can do now!”

“…I’m really not supposed to be out,” the Psiioniic said quietly. Next to him, the Signless’s face fell into a puzzled expression. “I have to go back.”

“Well no you don’t,” the Signless insisted. “You’re here, you can stay with us now. Come on, what reason could you possibly have to leave _now_?” He laughed incredulously. “It’s been five sweeps! Hasn’t it?”

“If it would ease your mind a bit,” the Dolorosa said, “we stay very well-hidden from authorities. We’ve gotten very good in the last few sweeps at staying unnoticed. You would be safe with us.”

“…It’s a big decision to make all of a sudden,” the Psiioniic said weakly. The Signless frowned. Even after all this time he could tell when the Psiioniic was lying, just as easily as before. “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

“Think about it over some food,” said the Signless. “Come on, it might not be such fancy food as you’re used to but there’s this old lady that makes really good musclebeast roast just around the corner….”

“Yeah but she also always tries to give you that nasty juice you hate,” the Disciple giggled. The Signless made a face and she laughed. “You should just say ‘no’ to her, just one time!”

“But she’s so sweet…” the Signless pouted. “I can’t ever turn it down….”

“At least pour it out under the table or something.”

“The last time he tried that,” the Dolorosa said, “he splashed it all over my dress, remember?”

“Am I never going to live that down? Do you _never_ listen to when I talk about stuff like forgiveness, Rosa?”

The Psiioniic tried to block out the sound of their reminiscent laughter, and realized what felt so wrong.

He didn’t know these trolls. Carmine had lived a whole life without him. He wasn’t even Carmine anymore, he was the Signless. The Psiioniic didn’t really belong with them, he didn’t really have the right to just shove himself back into Carmine’s life, not when there wasn’t a space for him anymore. Not when that space had been filled by the Disciple. He was just a troll that the Signless had known as a wriggler, lost touch with, and happened to meet again. Carmine had loved the Psiioniic. The Signless…the Signless was somebody else, who didn’t know the Psiioniic anymore. There was no possible way to fill the gap between the two.

“…Thanks for the offer,” the Psiioniic said tightly. He needed to get out of there before he started choking up. “But I’ve been away far too long.”

“Damn right you have!” the Signless insisted, scowling. “I’m not letting you leave.”

“…You’re going to have to.” The Psiioniic turned and left through the open door. He didn’t know why. He just didn’t want to make a spectacle out of himself. He didn’t know what possessed him to possibly walk away now, after having found him again after so, so long, but…but it just wasn’t the _same_ , the Psiioniic didn’t know what to even _say_ to him.

Unsurprisingly, the door flew open again as he was walking away, and footsteps were running up to meet him.

“Hey,” the Signless said softly, grabbing onto the Psiioniic’s hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Hey, come on. Tell me what’s wrong.”

_Everything. Everything’s wrong. I’m wrong, you’re wrong._

“Dualscar’s going to flip his shit with me as it is already,” the Psiioniic forced out, not looking up to meet his eyes. “I don’t have the energy to deal with him being more angry.”

“So you’re still with Dualscar?” the Signless asked, his voice somber. “…All this time?”

“Well, yeah. I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, Carmine—sorry, _Signless_ —but I _am_ a fucking slave.”

“What makes you think I’d ever forget something like that? Psiioniic, that’s why you should _stay_. The dreams I had when we were wrigglers…they’re clearer now, and I have them all the time, and I’ve been telling as many trolls as I possibly can. Come on, Psiioniic…things can change. Don’t leave.”

The Psiioniic only wanted to ask him one thing, but it was a terrible question, one he didn’t deserve the answer to, because he didn’t even have the right to ask it at all.

_Why’d you forget about me?_

He, the betrayer, the one who had given up and believed, even _wished_ that Carmine was dead just because it’d be _easier_ that way, dared demand such a thing. Dared feel insulted that the Signless had the Disciple as a matesprit now. Dared feel offended that he’d needed to reach out for another matesprit at all, after being alone for so long.

 _I didn’t do that_ , the Psiioniic tried to tell himself. As if it made him better. More faithful. But then again, what of Dualscar? Hadn’t there been some times that giving up to _him_ would have been easier? Hadn’t there been moments where the Psiioniic had thought it felt good enough, that this was a suitable replacement, maybe not an equal one but one that would do, just for now….

“You don’t really want to leave,” the Signless told him, taking hold of his hand again. “I can tell. Psiioniic, you’re trying so hard. Just come back with me, and rest a bit.”

There was silence for a long while; the only sound was the Psiioniic’s tight, controlled breathing. He mumbled something unintelligible.

“Hmm?” the Signless asked, leaning in closer.

“You’re gonna hate me,” he said.

“What? Why?”

“Because…all I can think about right now is how mad I am at you.”

That looked like it had taken the Signless completely by surprise. His eyes widened, looking hurt and uncomprehending, and he exclaimed, “Wh-why? What’d I do?”

“Nothing,” the Psiioniic replied, furious with himself. “Nothing, you didn’t do anything worth getting mad over. You just went and lived your life the past five sweeps, there’s no crime in that, there’s nothing wrong with that. And you’ve been a really good troll, Signless, you’ve been better than any other troll I’ve ever known, you’re actually doing something good and trying to change things so life will be better for everyone else. So there’s no reason I should be mad. None at all.”

Unwilling to continue the conversation past that, the Psiioniic pulled his hand out of the Signless’s grip and started to walk away, but he only got a few steps before the Signless’s arms were around him again, grasping him tight, his fists digging into the Psiioniic’s chest.

“I’m not letting you leave me to go back to Dualscar,” he said. “Not again.”

The Psiioniic tried to squirm out of his grip, but the Signless was much, much stronger than he looked, and his arms didn’t move a bit. The Psiioniic tried to walk away, tried to just pull free, but the Signless refused to budge, letting himself be dragged along a few inches across the gravel road.

“You’re _not_ leaving,” the Signless said firmly. “If you go now I’m just going to follow you.”

“You’re going to follow me?” the Psiioniic sighed, exasperated and weary.

“Yes.” His grip tightened as he said the word. “Come on, I can tell you want to stay. I know you’re mad at me, Psiioniic, and I’m sorry I don’t know why but if you stay and tell me then I’ll fix it. Come on. Please.”

The Psiioniic slowly raised his hand, and grabbed onto the Signless’s tightly gripped fist pressed deeply against his chest. He felt him nuzzling deeper into his back, and he felt the tiny tremors of desperate trembling.

“…I saw you kiss her. The Disciple…” the Psiioniic finally forced himself to say.

There was a heavy pause. The Signless’s grip on him weakened just a bit. “…When did you see that?” he asked.

“Did you even know that was me in the street earlier? When Dualscar bumped into you, and you dropped all your flowers….”

The Signless didn’t respond. The embrace fell apart, looser and looser.

“I followed you,” the Psiioniic continued. “I saw your hand and I tried to catch up to you, and I saw you give the flowers to Rosa and I saw you kiss the Disciple.”

“…We’re not matesprits.”

_Fuck I am a fucking idiot of course we’re not matesprits still how could I ever expect that of him how could I ask that of him of course he’s got the Disciple now he doesn’t owe me shit he doesn’t owe me fucking ANYTHING…_

“The Disciple and I…” the Signless continued, but the Psiioniic didn’t want to hear any more, he’d heard enough, heard enough to know that _he_ was the one being childish, he was the one stuck in the past, wanting to invalidate everything that had happened since then and now….

“…she’s just…” he was still saying, “…she’s the best friend I’ve had since you. She lets me do that kind of thing with her, sometimes, just sometimes…because she knows I miss you. If I had known it was you that I saw today, Psiioniic, I wouldn’t have just walked fucking away. I _thought_ , that _maybe_ it was you, but I’ve been wrong before, I’ve seen trolls that looked exactly fucking like you and been wrong every time…I just thought I was wrong again. I kissed her because I was thinking about you. Because I’d just been reminded of you. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry I didn’t look twice. What the Disciple and I have…it’s not a matespritship. It’s…it’s just something else, all right?”

The Psiioniic flexed his hands nervously. His mouth was suddenly dry. “Tho…tho we’re…I mean, you thtill….”

“ _You_ are my matesprit, you idiot! What did I tell you last time we talked, huh?”

The Psiioniic could still hear it. The child’s voice, the child’s warm embrace, the last refuge of comfort he could remember. _You can’t forget about me, all right? You can’t ever think that I’m going to forget about you._

“Right now,” the Signless said, “I demand that you stay. We’ll work it out. We’ll fix it, we’ll find a way to make it okay.”

“…Okay,” the Psiioniic replied. Not because of any conscious decision, or because he’d considered the consequences, or because it was the best possible choice. The word just came out, because it was what he wanted.

He turned around to face the Signless, took his hand subconsciously, and repeated, “Okay. …I will.”

The Signless was grinning wide, grabbing his hand in response as tight as he dared, his face flushed with excitement. “You have to mean it, now,” he said. “Don’t think I won’t stay up all day to watch you sleep and make sure you don’t run away.”

“That’s a little creepy, Car.”

The Signless laughed and the Psiioniic grinned to hear that sound again.

And then the Signless was kissing him again, and the Psiioniic felt all his limbs paralyze at the sheer euphoria of it, the old familiar taste and feel and texture, and it was just one step past the innocence of a child’s kiss, and one step away from an adult’s passion, the real, true realization of matespritship. The Psiioniic loved how utterly unlike Dualscar it was, how real and how memorable it was. There wasn’t an ounce of forgetfulness in the Signless’s touch. The emotion was old and new at the same time, both frightening and exciting.

Just as it was, impossibly, starting to feel even _better_ , a window on a nearby building shattered messily.

The Signless broke away, raising an eyebrow at the sudden debris. “Shit, you’re still doing that?”

“Sorry,” the Psiioniic said, his smile completely stuck in place. “I’ve just…gotta get used to that again.”

“I’ll take care of that, don’t you worry.”


	17. Home

Even though all the ingrained instincts in his head told him this was absolutely the wrong thing to do, the pinnacle of treason and irresponsibility, the Psiioniic ignored it. It felt so different, to actually do something that _he_ wanted to do, consequences be damned. It was a thrill in itself to actually say ‘no’ for the first time. To just decide that he wasn’t going to accept the things that hurt anymore.

When he and the Signless returned to the abandoned building where the Disciple and the Dolorosa were waiting, the Disciple looked like she had been crying. But upon seeing them both enter, she leapt up to her feet, running to the Psiioniic and throwing her arms around him. She kept saying how happy she was, how unbelievable and how wonderful it was that he had come back.

The four of them left to eat, and the whole time as they were walking there the Signless refused to let go of the Psiioniic’s hand, and it was so nice, and the Psiioniic remembered how he’d used to grab his hand when they were wrigglers, hold onto it tight and not let go until he absolutely needed to.

The Psiioniic almost didn’t remember whatever it was they talked about over their meal. It just felt…normal. Almost like he clicked right back into place here, and it didn’t feel like they were trying too hard to make him feel welcome back there, it just happened, because it was supposed to be that way. The four of them, together.

There was some old little rundown inn a couple of streets over where they had been staying. Apparently, the owner was allowing them to stay there for free, as repayment for something the Signless had done nights ago. The Psiioniic wasn’t able to get the full story out of him, as he seemed to be a bit modest about it, but it involved deterring a blueblood who had come around to bully rustbloods.

The moon was setting and the sun was on its way to rising. The Dolorosa and the Disciple retired to the respiteblock they shared, and the Signless pulled the Psiioniic into his before there could be any chance for him to protest.

“You know we weren’t even going to stop here,” the Signless said, taking off his cloak and throwing it over a chair. “Rosa thought it was too dangerous. It was because of the Disciple that we’re even here…apparently she hadn’t had a really good meal of fish in a long time so she bugged us until she agreed to stop. We ended up staying, and…well, look how good it turned out!” He laughed.

“Yeah,” the Psiioniic replied with a grin. There was still a tiny twinge of uncertainty that popped up whenever he looked at or thought of the Disciple. He shook it off, trying not to doubt anymore, trying to believe that what the Signless told him was real. That it was the truth.

“So…” the Psiioniic asked as the Signless was taking off his boots, “what…exactly have you been doing all this time?”

“It’s been pretty amazing,” he replied. “The dreams never stopped, you know. Remember, the one I told you about. I just kept having it, over and over, and it got clearer and I understood it more every time. I started telling people not that long after we saw each other for the last time.” His tone grew a bit more solemn. “I still don’t think it was a coincidence, but the first little town we stopped in, it was a hidden place, a sort of refuge, and I told all the trolls there…pretty much a few nights after I did that, seatrolls attacked the village and killed everybody.”

The Psiioniic felt his throat close up with guilt. The Signless was looking at him, and the Psiioniic was afraid he could see right into him, that he knew, he _knew_ it was his fault, that he’d been there, he’d done it….

“After that, I was more careful,” the Signless continued. “I didn’t talk right out in the open about it. The Disciple really helped me find places where we could get trolls to come meet and I could tell them. At first nobody wanted to see me, because I was just a little wriggler, but I guess…I guess word got out after a while. And we’ve just kind of been doing that, going from place to place, holding little secret meetings and letting the people spread the word among themselves.” He grinned. “It’s gotten close there a few times. Highbloods really don’t like it when they hear I’m around.”

“You should be more careful,” the Psiioniic said. “What you’re doing…it’s incredibly illegal.”

The Signless just laughed. “I know. But it’s kind of a fine line, you know? Because I know it’s wiser to keep myself sort of hidden, but at the same time I want as many people to know as possible…maybe if this gets big enough, I won’t need to hide anymore.”

It didn’t ease his mind much. “Well…until then, just be careful, okay? I don’t think you really know what highbloods do to the trolls that defy them….”

“I’ve seen stuff in the last few sweeps, Psiioniic,” the Signless told him, still smiling. “I’m not quite as…naïve as I used to be. I’ve seen the way things work. I’ve been to plenty of different cities and towns and it’s funny how things work so differently in those places but yet it all works the same…ah, I don’t know. I’m not good at explaining it.”

“You sounded really good when you were speaking tonight. It was just like listening to one of your silly little rambles again, except this time you were actually _saying_ something.”

“Heh…yeah, I guess I did used to do that a lot.” He leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms slowly. “Come on, I’m tired. Let’s go to sleep.” He got up and headed for the recuperacoon…the room’s _single_ recuperacoon.

“Um…” the Psiioniic said, “I haven’t…I haven’t thlept in a recuperacoon in sweepth…I’ll be all right thomewhere elth….”

The Signless peered at him questioningly. “Well you don’t have to do that…it’s definitely big enough for both of us.”

“It’th all right, I mean…it’d just feel weird…after all thith time….”

“Oh.” The Signless looked around the room for a moment, then grabbed his cloak again. “Then I’ll sleep down on the floor next to you.” He spread the cloak down on the floorboards.

“Wait, no, I just….” It was pointless. The Signless was already grabbing other stray pieces of clothing he had lying around and was making a pile of cloth on the floor. The Psiioniic sighed wearily, no energy in him to fight the Signless’s resolve.

“Thignleth, you don’t have to—” He never finished his sentence, because the Signless reached out and grabbed his wrist, gently pulling him down into the pile next to him, and kissed him, deep and slow.

“Carmine,” the Signless said softly. “When it’s you and me, I’m Carmine.” He smiled. “You can’t say ‘Signless’ anyway.”

All the stress and tension went out of him, and he just nodded, almost dreamily. “…Okay. Carmine it is.”

And then Carmine was holding onto either side of the Psiioniic’s face and he was kissing him again, it wasn’t like their first kiss and it wasn’t like their last one either, it was new and different and exhilarating. The Psiioniic edged himself closer, the blood rushing to his face and pulsing behind his eyes, and it was a struggle not to let the psionics ran rampant in the room. He reached up and ran his fingers through Carmine’s hair, rubbing his fingertips around the bases of his nubby, smooth little horns.

He didn’t taste like Dualscar, not at all. There wasn’t a trace of salt or sea breeze on his lips, just warmth. The blood that Alternia deemed unnatural, the color that made Carmine a mutant, was racing through him, filling his body up with heat, and the Psiioniic soaked it all in. He felt wild and feral and gentle all at the same time. It was a beautiful taste. The Psiioniic had missed it.

Carmine had his hands on him, everywhere, and the Psiioniic let him go wherever he wanted. It wasn’t cold and passionless like when Dualscar did it; it was real. The Psiioniic didn’t mind; Carmine could do anything he wanted, because he wasn’t going to hurt him, he never would. Carmine touched him all over, as if he was trying to remember, trying to commit completely to memory what he looked like, what he felt like.

Before he knew it, the Psiioniic was on his back atop the clothing pile, and Carmine was on top of him, and the Psiioniic saw clearly how red his eyes had become with age. The vibrant, alive color was brightly set in his eyes; it must be the reason for the hood. If he wanted to keep his blood color a secret when he was on the street, it was no wonder he kept it up. They stood out so vividly. It was a perfect color.

The Psiioniic was so lost in their current kiss that he didn’t even realize Carmine was undoing his shirt until he was already halfway into it. He broke away quickly, saying, “No-no-no, don’t—!”

But it was too late. His shirt was lying open, and Carmine was looking at what was underneath, he’d seen it, he’d seen all of it, and the Psiioniic ashamedly pulled the shirt back over him. “I don’t want you to see that,” he mumbled quietly, averting his eyes.

Carmine paused a moment, then gently took hold of his hands and coaxed them away. He opened the shirt again, beholding all of it: every last scar, every cut and every gash that Dualscar had carved into him. The Psiioniic had lost count of how many times he’d done it. He did it when he was drunk, when he was angry, when he was punishing him for god knew what. Sometimes he just cut his sign into him again, as a reminder, as a way of marking him again as his property. Sometimes he cut words into him, inflammatory slurs against his caste, forcing him to bear them all the time.

“…Fuck,” the Psiioniic said, completely humiliated. “Just…just forget it.” He tried to get up but Carmine refused to move.

“Wait, why?” he asked. “Psiioniic, I don’t care.”

“It’s really ugly, okay, and I kind of don’t deal with it very well. So just….” His face was filling up with a yellow tinge. “Just ignore it, okay?”

Carmine glanced down at his blighted skin, and then met his eyes. He leaned down and kissed one of the scars, one of the messy, jagged signs of Dualscar.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said. “ _Nothing_.”

Carmine left a trail of kisses down his chest, ending at his stomach, and he quickly and playfully dragged his tongue across an area of unblemished skin there. The Psiioniic inhaled sharply, a small _crack_ of psionic energy escaping his eyes. He leaned back further, letting Carmine do it again, reveling in the euphoria of it, his blood racing faster and faster until his head spun.

When Carmine came back to kiss him on the mouth again, the Psiioniic grabbed him tightly around the shoulders and pressed himself into him, and he felt Carmine fumbling clumsily with the buckle on his pants, and then he was hurriedly undoing his own…the Psiioniic resisted the urge to laugh, Carmine had been so steady and sure of himself up until now, and only now was he getting flustered….

There was so much _want_ in him right now, the Psiioniic felt his whole body straining from its heightened state, color, sound, and touch all seemed a hundred times clearer. He’d never done this before, Dualscar had always, _always_ wanted it but the Psiioniic had never let him. Even if he had, the Psiioniic was certain it never would have felt like this.

The Psiioniic grabbed onto Carmine tight enough to strain his arms, and as it started, as Carmine started to pulse slowly into him, the Psiioniic couldn’t believe he’d ever, ever thought of leaving him.

He was sucking in air through his teeth with every gradual build of pleasure, he’d never felt this, he’d _never_ felt this, and it was Carmine doing this with him, doing it _to_ him. As it got closer, he started to exhale quick, short breaths, grabbing a handful of Carmine’s shirt in his fist and pulling, just _pulling_ because what was happening was so intense, so strong, so perfect, just so—so—

They both cried out at the same time, though the Psiioniic was a bit louder, at the end. It was pulsing through his body, warming the Psiioniic in every last inch of him, and he didn’t let go of Carmine or the tight handful of cloth in his grip. He just laid there, right where he was, letting his blood pump forcefully underneath his skin, reveling in it, in this, in everything.

Carmine kissed the top of his head, then moved off him, laying down beside him and snuggling in close. The Psiioniic curled up contentedly into his arms.

“You know…” Carmine said, “if it weren’t for Rosa and the Disciple, I’d take you somewhere else, right now.”

The Psiioniic didn’t respond; he only made a faint noise of acknowledgement.

“If we had nothing to worry about, if it wasn’t for my dreams or for the fact that it’s important people know, you and I could be gone.” A pause. “It’s dangerous, what we’re doing. You’re right about that. I don’t want you to get in any unnecessary trouble because you’re with us.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the Psiioniic said tiredly, all his energy flowing out of him. “Even if, by some small chance, something happens, and we all get punished, it won’t matter what they do to me. I’m not scared of getting culled, or any of that.”

Even without looking, he could tell Carmine was grinning. “Well, hopefully it won’t come to that. As long as we’re careful, as long as we’re smart about it, I think we can change things.”

“Yeah. I believe that.”

Carmine felt the Psiioniic fall asleep a few moments later. He grinned to himself, loving the fact that, this time, when the Psiioniic woke up, he wouldn’t be going away. He was staying this time.

Finally, he was staying.


	18. Mine

The Psiioniic woke up first, and when he remembered that he was waking up next to Carmine again, all the adrenaline rushed to his head, making him dizzy with excitement. He laid there motionless for a bit, just watching his sleeping face. There was still so much of the child in Carmine’s features. Yet his expression as he slept was the look of a tired soldier, a world-weary walker laid down after sweeps and sweeps of unrest.

Warily, the Psiioniic reached up and lightly brushed some of his hair away from where it was falling into his eyes. Carmine stirred from the touch, his breathing changing, and then he exhaled softly and opened his eyes. The Psiioniic was grinning at him.

“Hi,” the Psiioniic said sheepishly.

Carmine smiled, adjusted himself a bit, then reached out and pulled the Psiioniic close to him in a tight hug. There was a short silence, then he said, “I think that was one of the best sleeps I’ve had in a while.”

The Psiioniic laughed, feeling giddy. “Glad I could help.”

“Well, anytime you want to ‘help’ me again, I’m not going to complain.”

The Psiioniic laughed again, though in truth he was in such a mood that he probably would have laughed at anything. He squirmed a bit out of Carmine’s iron grip, a motion that was received with a low groan.

“Come back, you’re warm,” Carmine said sleepily.

“You can’t go back to sleep, come on, get up,” the Psiioniic replied, wriggling completely out of his arms. Carmine sighed, then begrudgingly sat up. The Psiioniic got to his feet, pulling back on the pieces of his clothing that Carmine had undone yesterday.

“I was thinking we should probably leave this town first thing today,” Carmine said, rubbing his eyes and sleepily reaching for his shoes.

The Psiioniic nodded in agreement. “You’re right. Dualscar’s probably aware that I’m gone by now. If he’s not passed out somewhere, anyway….”

“Heh….” Carmine reached for another cloak he had lying around and swung it over his shoulders. He pulled the hood up over his head, his nubby horns poking through the openings. He took the Psiioniic’s hand, saying, “Let’s go get something to eat first, then we’ll pack up and go.”

They left the respiteblock and headed downstairs, into the inn’s small dining area, where they found the Dolorosa and Disciple already waiting. They were sitting at a little crooked table by the wall, sipping tea. Upon seeing the Signless and Psiioniic approach, the Disciple’s eyes lit up, and she flashed a wide grin at them.

“Good eeeeevening,” she said playfully as they sat down. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” the Signless replied, smiling. “Sorry I slept in a little bit. Were you waiting long?”

“Oh no,” the Dolorosa said, taking a drink of tea and glancing at the Psiioniic. “Don’t worry about it, love.”

“Anyway,” the Signless continued, completely oblivious to the yellow blush that was rising to the Psiioniic’s cheeks, “I know were planning on having another meeting tonight but I think we should leave a night early. Now that, you know, circumstances have changed….”

“Oh yeah?” the Disciple asked, leaning her chin against her palm, grinning in the Psiioniic’s direction. He refused to look at her. “Yeah, I guess lots of things are different now, huh?”

“Well…” said the Signless, “not _lots_ of things, but obviously, stuff like the Psiioniic coming with us now, and you know his—well, the seatroll he used to work for—is still in the city so we should probably disappear. Maybe avoid coastal towns for a while.”

“That’s probably a wise decision,” the Dolorosa said. “If you hadn’t suggested it, I was going to.”

The innkeeper scurried over and brought them some food, and then for a while the table was silent. The Signless was ravenously shoving as much as food as he could into his mouth, while the Dolorosa watched, wincing at the display and continuing to sip her tea. The Disciple kept looking over at the Psiioniic, grinning knowingly, and the Psiioniic tried to avoid her gaze because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt _quite_ so uncomfortable….

When the Signless finished his meal, he excused himself from the table and ran back upstairs to get his things together. The Psiioniic was left there, and the Disciple wouldn’t stop grinning at him.

“So,” she said, “what’d you guys talk about yesterday?”

“…Not too much really,” he mumbled in response.

“So there wasn’t a lot of talking?”

“All right,” the Dolorosa said exasperatedly as the Disciple laughed and the Psiioniic embarrassedly buried his face in his hands. “Let’s not pry, Disciple.”

“Hee hee…sorry Rosa!” she giggled. “Psiioniic, I’m just teasing you, I’m sorry.”

\---

Dualscar woke up in his respiteblock with a raging headache. He groaned as he sat up. He didn’t remember anything from the night before, or the day before…somebody must have dragged his inebriated body back to the ship. Well, that was fine. The last time he’d blacked out, he’d woken up on the beach next to some limeblood, and all his jewelry was missing.

He laid in his recuperacoon a moment, trying to let the nauseous throbbing in his head subside long enough to gather his thoughts. Slowly, he played back the parts that he _did_ remember…he and the seatrolls had gone down into the city for some real drink, none of the diluted shit he’d been sucking down the past few nights…. And he’d kept talking about something he was going to do when they got back….

Dualscar’s eyes flew open. Right. The Psiioniic. The insolent little shit still needed to disciplined. He groaned, rubbing his eyes, wondering if he ought to put it off until he could rely on himself to stand up without vomiting. Then again, the Psiioniic was smug enough as it was, if he didn’t get his comeuppance swiftly then he’d start to get ideas, more of his irritating fucking ideas….

Dualscar forced himself up, swallowing back the bile that threatened to come up with the sudden motion. He found a cup of stagnant water sitting on his table and sucked it down greedily. It helped, but only a little. Perhaps before they shoved off from this place he’d take an hour or two to go swimming. It usually helped if he got some fresh saltwater in his gills.

He threw open the door to his respiteblock, startling a seatroll that was patrolling right outside.

“Oh,” she said nervously. Dualscar peered suspiciously at her. “You’re awake.”

“What time is it?” he asked impatiently.

“It’s, uh…a little after midnight. You didn’t sleep all that long.”

“Why the fuck are you so fidgety?”

“No reason,” she replied hurriedly. He pushed past her, fed up, heading down the hall towards the Psiioniic’s respiteblock.

“Ah—Dualscar!” the seatroll called after him. “Where—where are you going?”

“To see the embodiment of every single fucking problem I’ve got,” Dualscar growled back. “Will you leave me the fuck alone?”

She stopped in her tracks, wincing as he approached the Psiioniic’s door. “All right,” she said hurriedly, then turned and ran as fast as she could back up to the deck. Dualscar glared at she went away, annoyed and a little perplexed, but he could find the time to care later.

He unlocked the door to the respiteblock and threw the door open, saying, “All right, grub, get the fuck over here—”

Dualscar paused, scanning the room. The empty room. The empty room that had a broken window. And no glass on the floor, meaning nobody had broken _in_ , but somebody had broken _out_ ….

The pain of his hangover completely ignored, Dualscar turned and ran up to the deck as fast as he could. He burst out into the moonlight, screaming, “ _Where the FUCK is he?!_ ”

All the seatrolls and bluebloods on deck stared at him, then at each other nervously, nobody willing to speak up, all of them shuffling and fidgeting like the traitorous fucking bastards they were….

Dualscar scanned the crowd for the seatroll he’d seen in the hallway earlier. He stomped up to her, grabbing her by the front of her shirt and shaking her, screaming, “Did you fucking know he was gone?! Whose fucking idea was it to keep this from me?!”

“We didn’t want to upset you!” she cried frantically. “Dualscar—Dualscar, look, there’s seatrolls that went out hours ago to look for him, they’re searching the whole city, they’re gonna find him, okay?”

“What I want to know,” Dualscar said, his voice shaking with affronted rage, “is why _every single one of you fuckers_ isn’t out there looking for him!! It _cannot_ be difficult to find _one_ psionic, you fucking failures!! I’ve got one of the only ones left! He’s mine, he’s fucking _mine_ , and I _want him back RIGHT FUCKING NOW_.”

The crew stared dumbly for another moment, and then in a flurry of motion ran off the ship, every last one of the seatrolls and bluebloods heading out into the city. As they filtered out into the streets, Dualscar resisted the urge to break the next thing he laid his hands on. A wave of nausea ripped through him, and as the adrenaline of his fury subsided, the hangover was back in full force. He groaned, retreating back down towards his recuperacoon. By the time he woke up, the Psiioniic had better fucking be back on the ship. Otherwise…

…he’d come up with what else later. For now, the sopor slime was calling him.

\---

There was the smallest of taps at the door. Dualscar grumbled and opened his eyes, unaware of how long he’d slept, if he’d slept at all. The tap came again, and he pulled himself out of the slime. It had better be the fucking Psiioniic knocking at his door, that was all he knew. This time he was going to break that impudent little rustblood, so this would never happen again.

But once again, he was disappointed, as he opened the door to a blueblood troll, staring at him with a sort of half-hopeful look on his face. Dualscar sneered.

“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘We found him’ then I’d turn right the fuck around and walk away,” Dualscar growled at him.

“We know where he went!” the blueblood sputtered out. Dualscar lashed out and grabbed onto one of the blueblood’s horns, not breaking their gaze.

“I guess that’s the next best thing you could have said,” he said. “Go on.”

“I’m the only one that came back,” the blueblood continued. “All the rest are still out there looking for him, they just sent me back to let you know that we know where he went to.”

Dualscar raised his eyebrows expectantly. He was pulling on the troll’s horn impatiently, throwing him off-balance and half-amusedly watching him trying to stand up straight.

“There’s this troll that’s been raising a rebellion in the slums. Keeps spreading really treasonous shit, heresy and all kinds of illegal talk. The rustbloods call him the Signless or something like that, because he doesn’t wear one and he goes around anonymous too. Anyway—” he added hurriedly as Dualscar’s grip tightened, “—a bunch of trolls admitted to seeing a psionic wandering around the area where he was apparently holding a meeting illegally last night. They’re searching that whole neighborhood now and when they find him they’ll bring him straight back.”

“Again, I ask,” Dualscar said, “how long does it take to find a single fucking psionic troll?”

“W-well…well, I don’t really know…I left just after they found out about the Signless so you could know as soon as possible…but Dualscar—there’s something good in all this too!”

“And that fucking is?”

“This troll—the Signless—he’s trying to start a rebellion, you know. Just like—just like the one Darkleer put down all those sweeps ago.”

Rage flared in Dualscar’s magenta eyes and he bared his teeth. Nobody ever fucking talked about that incident if they knew what was good for them.

“But we thought,” the troll was continuing to say hurriedly, “if you stopped this one, maybe the Condesce would praise _you_ for it this time, she’d notice you and she’d reward you for it!”

There was a tense silence. Dualscar watched the blueblood’s face, considering his words, wondering if he was being mocked…but then again, what if? Just what if this was his chance to redeem himself, a second chance to make himself at least _visible_ to Her Imperious Condescension? It certainly couldn’t _hurt_ to cull one upstart troll. Maybe if this Signless’s rebellion never got off the ground, maybe if Dualscar got it while it was still small, the Condesce would be impressed with his foresight, his ability to crush the seeds of mutiny before they sprouted.

“All right,” Dualscar said, and the blueblood still gripped by his horns almost collapsed with relief. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You go back down into the city and tell them to keep looking for the Psiioniic. But I also want to know everything you can find out about this Signless troll. _Everything_. Where he’s been, what he tells the lowbloods, how many of them know about him, fucking _everything_ , do you understand me?”

The blueblood nodded vigorously. Dualscar finally released him, and the troll went running back up to the deck.

In all honesty, it didn’t surprise Dualscar that the Psiioniic had run away. He supposed he’d been expecting it for some time, though the only thing ever stopping the yellowblood was simply a place to _go_. But why this time? What was so fucking special about this particular traitor Signless that the Psiioniic had finally up and left?

Dualscar wasn’t sure, but he _was_ certain that soon enough it wasn’t going to matter. Even if this Signless turned out to be a nobody, even if there was never any danger of a real uprising at all, Dualscar was still going to hunt him down like a stupid musclebeast. Dualscar had a purpose again. Even if it was short-lived, it was still a purpose. Something to pull him up out of the mire of self-loathing and failure.

Yes, he’d fucking do it. He’d find this troll and gut him, let all that tainted blood spill out into the sea. Hell, maybe he’d even make the Psiioniic do it, once he got him back. Dualscar grinned at the thought. Perhaps his little slave’s act of defiance had ended up in Dualscar’s favor after all.


	19. Always

It was still early in the evening when the four of them departed. The streets were quiet, only a handful of trolls awake and already going about their business. The Disciple in particular was happy to be traveling again. Clutched in her hands was a large, heavy book that she kept close to her as if it were her only possession in the world.

The Psiioniic wanted to ask her what it was for, though he resisted on the basis that it seemed too presumptuous. But the Disciple was nothing if not perceptive, and she saved him the trouble of asking.

“This is aaaaall the stuff that the Signless dreams about,” she said as she scurried over to walk next to the Psiioniic. She opened it up to a random page filled with sharp, slanting green handwriting and small scribbles. She flipped through the book with an affectionate look in her eyes. The Psiioniic leaned over to get a better look, astounded at how full the book seemed already.

“This is all his dreams and some of these are particularly good sermons he’s held…it’s hard to keep up with him when he’s talking so usually I’ll write it down afterward,” the Disciple said, gesturing to certain passages as they went by on the pages. “I remember most of it but he’ll usually fill whatever I forgot, or even Rosa helps me sometimes.”

“There’s so much,” the Psiioniic said. The Disciple was turning pages too fast for him to properly read anything, but the glimpses he did catch looked interesting. “You wrote it all down yourself?”

“Yep!” she said, nodding proudly. “I really want to make some copies, too, you know just in case something went bad, there’d be more than one book out there.”

The Psiioniic grinned, still a bit unsure of the right things to say, and nodded whenever it seemed appropriate. She seemed perfectly content to do all the talking on her own. But at least she was talking. Silence would have been unbearable. But as it was, she was just Carmine’s really good friend. Not a matesprit and not a replacement for him. The Psiioniic liked her.

“So…” he ventured when there was a break in the conversation. “Which one’s…do you have a favorite?”

“Hmm?” She looked at him inquisitively, her eyes wide and the tips of her fangs poking out over her bottom lip. When she was making that face the Psiioniic could almost imagine her ear-like horns perking up.

“You know, like…a favorite thing the Signless talks about,” he elaborated.

“Hmm, well….” She blushed a bit. She looked up to where the Signless and the Dolorosa were walking side by side several feet in front of them. She dropped her voice a bit, grinning shyly, and said, “You’re gonna think I’m weird for this.”

“I won’t,” he assured her, shaking his head vigorously and smiling at her. “Come on, I’m curious.”

“Well…there was this one night he was talking about like…well…romance.” She blushed a deeper shade of green. The Psiioniic felt his whole body sort of go cold and his stomach seize up. The smile dropped off his face, and he instantly regretted asking her this, what if she said something he didn’t know how to respond to without hurting her feelings….

“And he was talking about,” she was saying as she hugged the book tight to her, staring down at her shoes dragging through the dust, “how in his dreams people don’t care about trying to get matesprits or kismeses that are really high up the hemospectrum, how people just sort of mate with the people they love or hate regardless of like…social status. But the part I liked best was the thing about moirallegiance.”

The Psiioniic felt his anxiety recede just a bit, replaced by confusion and curiosity.

“You hear stories these days about the occasional highblood who falls in hate or pity with like a rustblood or something…but you never hear about…you never hear about moirails like that,” said the Disciple, frowning as she watched the ground.

“…And that’s something he said used to happen?”

She nodded slowly, as if her thoughts were elsewhere. “Yeah. I mean, moirails are important, don’t you think?”

 _My supposed moirail’s a lowlife piece of scum,_ he thought bitterly, suppressing a sneer and nodding wordlessly.

“I don’t know,” she went on, shaking her head and looking up at him, “sometimes I think that if more highbloods or seatrolls had moirails that were really good moirails, like the _best_ moirail, they wouldn’t get so violent or angry all the time…I don’t know.” She glanced back down at her shoes, a wistful look in her eyes. “I just kind of feel like we all need somebody to talk to every once in a while. And highbloods, bluebloods, seatrolls…they only see things from their perspective. They need to talk to somebody who might see things differently. Do you know what I mean, Psiioniic?”

He nodded again, deciding to say nothing further. That seemed to satisfy her, and she grinned, a green blush spreading across the bridge of her nose. He suddenly felt guilty without really knowing why…agreeing with her had just been the polite thing to do, hadn’t it? The Psiioniic didn’t feel as though highbloods or seatrolls deserved much of anything…but starting an argument with her on it didn’t seem like it would pan out well.

“In fact,” the Disciple said, paging through the book again, “I think I can find where he first talked about it…hold on….” The Disciple opened the book to a certain section, but before the Psiioniic could look over at it, she shut the book quickly.

“Whoops!” she said suddenly. “Um…I guess….” She giggled, the blush spreading across her face again. “Sorry, I _thought_ I had it in here, guess I was wrong….”

\---

The group settled in for the night several hours later. The Signless tried not to let them stay in towns or cities unless they planned to hold meetings there. They found themselves a sizable cavern about a mile away from a small village. The Dolorosa went into town to buy them dinner, returning a short time later.

The Signless sat by a small fire, his lusus beside him, the Disciple across from him, and the Psiioniic settled in close on his right. The dinner the Dolorosa had brought back was some kind of particularly spicy cluckbeast wrapped in a flatbread. Rosa ate hers quietly, not spilling so much as a crumb on her dress. The Disciple and Signless both ate as though they were in a contest to see who needed to stop for breath first.

The Signless was barely halfway through his meal when he turned to glance at the Psiioniic, and found his hands completely empty.

“Didn’t you like it?” the Signless asked with a full mouth, frowning curiously. Next to him, the Dolorosa scowled disapprovingly but said nothing.

“Hmm? Oh.” The Psiioniic laughed, a faint yellow blush filling up his cheeks. “I finished it already.”

“That quickly?”

“It was good,” he explained, shrugging. “And I feel like I haven’t had anything but fish for the past five sweeps.”

“Lucky,” the Disciple mumbled teasingly.

“Well,” the Signless said, “did you get enough to eat? Do you want the rest of mine?” He held out what remained of his food.

“No, I’m good, thanks.”

“Oh. Well…” he trailed off a bit. “Just…let me know. If you want any more.”

The Psiioniic nodded, and then the Disciple and the Dolorosa began discussing something or other, and he became engrossed in their conversation. The Signless wasn’t listening, and found he was losing his appetite. He forced down the rest of the food regardless, if just for something to do with his hands. When he was finished, he reached out and intertwined his fingers with the Psiioniic’s, who grasped them in return, though his attention was focused elsewhere. The Signless felt like he ought to say something, but the Psiioniic wasn’t even looking at him. The Signless couldn’t quite push away the feeling of having done something _wrong_ but…but the Psiioniic didn’t seem _mad_ at all….

Most importantly, the Psiioniic was smiling. And relaxed. The Signless was immeasurably happy that the Psiioniic had decided to come along with them, not just for the Signless’ own benefit, but for the Psiioniic’s as well. The Signless could practically _see_ the tension that had filtered out of him in just the last day and night. It was like seeing the little wriggler again. Like the first time they’d met. The Psiioniic had been happy then, during those nights.

Eventually, the others finished and the conversation ended, the Disciple put out the fire, and the Dolorosa began to unpack the ragged bits of clothing they slept on. Normally they all slept together, a habit that had been born out of the days when the Disciple and the Signless were wrigglers and used the Dolorosa as a pillow. The communal sleeping pile was warm and a hundred times more soothing than sopor slime.

The Psiioniic found himself wide awake even hours after all the others had fallen asleep.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t tired. He was exhausted, yet…he was still excited, still racing with adrenaline. It wasn’t just the thrill of seeing the Dolorosa again, the complete ecstasy of having Carmine back…the thing he was having difficulty processing was the fact that he had just…walked away. After all these sweeps. He’d left Dualscar. Left all the seatrolls, left the life that Alternia had carved out for him and shoved into his hands. It was possible. He’d always wished for it to be so but it was _real_ now, it had actually _happened_. He wasn’t Dualscar’s “thing” anymore. He wasn’t a slave.

He was just himself. Just the Psiioniic: a yellow-blooded troll, who went where he wanted to go, stayed with whomever he wanted to stay with. A troll that had a matesprit, who loved him….

Hours crept by. The sun was blazing, bright and scorching, outside the cave. Wide awake, the Psiioniic cautiously rolled himself away from the sleeping pile, feeling a sudden chill as he left Carmine’s body heat. He walked towards the entrance, just to the edge of where the sunlight hit the floor, and then something caught his eye.

The Disciple’s book. She’d laid it beside the other cave wall. The Psiioniic picked it up and retreated to the back of the cave, sitting down and staring at the blank cover. It wasn’t snooping, not really…after all, wasn’t the Disciple writing this book so that other people _would_ read it? She wouldn’t mind, would she? The Psiioniic hoped not, but still he felt a twinge of guilt as he pulled open the cover.

He hadn’t had the chance to look closer when she was showing him earlier that night, but here and there in the margins were little pictures that the Disciple had drawn. There were quadrant symbols, apparent attempts at illustrating of the Signless’ sermons, other ones were just stray doodles that had no discernible meaning. The drawings brought a little smile to his face and the Psiioniic continued browsing the rest of the enormous tome.

He read through several pages. What the Disciple had recorded was certainly more than just a paraphrase of all the Signless’ thoughts. It was all written cohesively, as a composed thought instead of just snippets of ideas…ideas the Psiioniic was familiar with: compassion and equality among the blood castes.

There was a lot about forgiveness too. Forgiveness for those who did you both small wrongs and great wrongs. Forgiveness for highbloods, for seatrolls. The Psiioniic didn’t quite grasp that part of it. It wasn’t a small thing, forgiveness. It wasn’t easy to bestow, and it certainly wasn’t easy to earn.

He flipped the page carefully, finding that train of thought too heavy for this late in the day. The Disciple’s drawings adorned the top edges of the page. He glanced over them, looked down to read the next passage, and then glanced back up. He must have seen that wrong, hadn’t he….

No…no, he hadn’t. There was the Disciple’s sign, next to a crude scribble of the Signless’ face—it couldn’t be any other troll, the nubby horns gave it away—and between them, a heart symbol.

The Psiioniic felt his chest seize up, and he caught his breath. It had been too good to be true after all. The Disciple _did_ feel something for the Signless, of course, why wouldn’t she…and then the Psiioniic had shown up, quite out of nowhere, and ended that for her. It wasn’t fair, not at all. She’d been there for the Signless. The Psiioniic had not. And technically, the Disciple had been with the Signless longer than he ever had….

He hurriedly turned the page, wincing as he heard a tiny rip. He tried not to let it get to him. He wouldn’t say anything about it. No point in making things awkward, no point in worrying her or the Signless or the Dolorosa or anybody.

Unable to concentrate on the next five or so pages, he got up, carefully laid the book back where he’d found it, and laid himself back down on the clothing pile. The others showed no signs of waking.

The Psiioniic spent the rest of the day flitting in and out of wakefulness, trying as hard as he could to keep his thoughts at bay.

\---

When the Signless awoke, the Psiioniic was already up, sitting by the cave opening and staring out into the moonlit wilderness. The Psiioniic only regarded him with a weak, exhausted smile, but insisted that everything was all right.

The Disciple went out to forage for their breakfast while the Dolorosa set to meticulously folding all the clothing, as she always insisted upon doing.

“Can I help with anything?” the Psiioniic asked the Signless quietly.

“There’s not too much to do,” he replied, stretching out his arms and rolling back his shoulders. “We’ll just wait for the Disciple to get back with some food.” He smiled wide at the prospect of eating soon.

“Oh…all right.” Immediately the Signless’ smile disappeared.

“If you want to help me fold,” the Dolorosa interjected casually, “you certainly may. I’d ask Carmine but I’m afraid I’ve given up on him.”

“I don’t know why you want to fold them all anyway if we’re just going to use them again tomorrow!” the Signless insisted.

The Psiioniic shrugged as he moved out to help the Dolorosa. “It saves space in your bags.”

The smile fell off the Signless’ face, and nobody said anything further until the Disciple returned with their breakfast.

Afterwards they set out again. The Signless hadn’t had any new dreams that day. Much of the first hour’s conversation was dominated by the Dolorosa and Disciple; the Disciple was in sore need of a haircut, though she was resistant to the idea. She felt her already tiny stature would be rendered completely unthreatening to her prey if any of her hair were to be removed. The Signless could see what she meant: with that veritable mane gone she’d be positively miniscule.

The Psiioniic was quiet. He usually was. But there was something on his mind. The Signless wanted to ask, but the Psiioniic was avoiding his gaze for some reason. He knew the Psiioniic could tell he was staring at him…the yellowblood was just choosing to ignore him.

The Signless decided to just say something, anything at all.

“Did you get enough to eat?” he asked, striding closer to him and trying to sound offhand.

“You asked me that already,” the Psiioniic replied, the tone in his voice unreadable. “And I said yes then.”

“Okay.” The Signless nodded in apparent satisfaction, but the Psiioniic still wouldn’t look at him… “Well, are you sure?”

“Why are you so fixated on making sure I eat, anyway?” The Psiioniic cut him a sideways glance.

_Because I’m worried that Dualscar never fucking fed you, you’re skinny as hell and I can’t help wondering if you think you’re not supposed to say if you’re hungry or not, fuck it, Psiioniic I’m trying to make up for not being there I know I can’t though…._

The Signless said none of it. He only shrugged and forced a smile; it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just checking. That’s all….”

“…If I’m hungry, I’ll let you know,” the Psiioniic said, regarding him somewhat suspiciously. The look cut the Signless right through to his insides, and he wasn’t expecting it.

 _Dammit,_ the Signless thought, _he’s mad at me he’s still mad at me_ ….

The worst part was, he had every right to be. The Signless felt a lingering twinge of cold fear, a terrible thought entering his head.

_Shit, does he…does he know? Did he somehow find out about…?_

The Signless glanced over at the Psiioniic, not turning his head. His matesprit’s expression was inscrutable.

 _It’s my fault,_ the Signless thought, cringing inwardly. _It’s completely my fault, it’s my fault for doing it, I have to tell him, he should know…._

But how the hell to even _begin_ that conversation?

_Maybe it’d be better not to say anything. Not for a while, I’ll just wait. I’ll wait until it comes up …no, I shouldn’t wait, it’ll be worse if I do…._

If only they had some privacy, he could ask the Dolorosa for advice, but…he already knew what she would say. It was the same thing he’d tell himself. He glanced up to where his lusus was walking ahead of him; she was taking hold of the Disciple’s hair, laughing when the greenblood swatted her hand away. Oblivious to what was happening behind her.

He’d have to tell the Psiioniic about the Disciple. About… _their_ relationship. The Signless swallowed nervously, feeling his head spin with shameful guilt. He glanced over at the Psiioniic walking beside him. There’d be no normality, no calm until the Signless had told him everything, until there wasn’t an ounce of secrecy between them. And maybe after that…maybe it wouldn’t be normal. Maybe the Psiioniic wouldn’t forgive him. Maybe he’d leave.

The Signless was tormented for hours until they stopped for a midnight rest.

“There’s musclebeasts _everywhere_ around here!” the Disciple exclaimed excitedly. “I wanna go get one, and we’ll have a huge lunch!”

“Hey, Rosa.” The Signless pulled his lusus aside as she began to set her things down. “Why don’t…why don’t you go with her?”

The Dolorosa frowned, though her expression was amused. “She’s capable enough on her own, love, don’t you know by now?”

“Well…well, wouldn’t it be good if you…well….” He was suddenly at a loss for words, and then the Dolorosa understood.

“All right,” she conceded, giving him a knowing look. “We’ll be back shortly…or perhaps we’ll take our time.” She grinned and then followed the Disciple towards the woods, grabbing playfully at her hair as they headed off.

Now it was just the Signless and the Psiioniic. The Psiioniic had settled up against a tree, resting his eyes quietly. The Signless twisted the edge of his cloak in one hand, then sat down next to him.

“Tired?” he asked. “We’re not going too fast for you, are we?”

The Psiioniic opened his red eye. “When did you turn into such a fussy lusus?” he asked with a small grin.

“Around the same time I became a vagrant,” the Signless sighed, relaxing a bit. Only to immediately tense up again when the Psiioniic’s smile faded away. “I’m sorry if I’m fussy. I guess I learned it from Rosa.” He paused.

“You know…” the Signless said after a moment’s hesitation, “a few sweeps back, when we decided to go into a town for the first time, I was really excited. Rosa wouldn’t let go of my hand because she said I would have run off and disappeared completely otherwise. But I slipped out of her hand anyway, because I wanted to see what this one vendor was selling…and I tripped.” He pointed at his forehead. “Slammed my head _really_ bad on a rock,” he said, grinning.

The Psiioniic winced. “Did anybody…see you bleed?”

“Well…I was freaking out pretty bad because I could feel myself bleeding a lot, and I didn’t want to get up because I knew everybody would see…then this one troll stopped in front of me, and she was a highblood. Purple blooded, way higher than me or anybody I know. She asked me if I was all right. She helped me up, and I thought maybe she might look at me and just think I was a regular redblood, she was just so nice and seemed so concerned about me…but she wasn’t. When she saw my blood color she flipped out.”

The Psiioniic cringed, and while he didn’t look like he wanted to hear the rest of this story, he wouldn’t say so, and he just listened.

“Anyway,” the Signless continued, “I thought I was going to be culled on the spot. But I just pulled my hood really tight over my face and ran away from her, and I tried to find Rosa again but the crowd was just so big…and all I could hear was the lady screaming, ‘Freak’ over and over.”

The Psiioniic averted his eyes. He didn’t know what to say.

“I couldn’t find Rosa,” the Signless said, staring off elsewhere wistfully. “I thought I was lost forever. I thought it was only a matter of time before culling drones showed up and killed me. So I found a real secluded alleyway and stuffed myself in there, covered myself up and waited.” He paused. “I think I fell asleep there. The next thing I remember was somebody grabbing me by the front of my shirt and shaking me so hard I couldn’t see straight.”

The Psiioniic’s eyes widened.

“It was the Disciple,” the Signless explained. “She was crying and really, really pissed off at me. She kept saying I was stupid, I shouldn’t have run away, I could have been killed, all this stuff. She yelled at me until she couldn’t come up with any other way to tell me how much of an irresponsible wriggler I had been. But I didn’t care because…I had never been so happy to see her. By that time my blood had dried up and nobody in the street cared about whatever that highblood troll had been yelling about.”

“…I’m sorry. I didn’t know anything like that had happened. But I was always afraid of it though…” the Psiioniic said quietly.

“You don’t have to apologize. And how would you know unless I told you? But I wanted you to know because…well, there’s a lot of time we have to make up for, right?” The Signless grinned widely, but the Psiioniic didn’t return it. He only nodded somewhat lethargically and averted his eyes again. The Signless’ smile dropped off his face.

_Why do you look so sad? You were happy yesterday. You were happy when you were with me. Do you think that I…why won’t you just tell me what’s wrong?_

The Signless took in a deep breath, and said, as casually as he could muster, “She’s a little flushed for me.”

The Psiioniic nodded. “I know. I’m not surprised.”

“But she’s always known about you. You know, when I came to see you at the training facility, she’s the one that showed me the way to you.”

The Psiioniic turned to face him, actually looking surprised. “You’ve known her that long?”

“Um…well, yeah.” _Shit was that the wrong thing to say?_

“…Hmm.” The Psiioniic looked like he wanted to say something else but once again he was just being quiet.

_He knows I’m avoiding something. He knows I’m trying to tell him something…._

He took in another deep breath, let it out slowly. “Psiioniic…” he said quietly.

“What?”

“…I’ve…you have to know this, but…her and I, we…sort of…did other stuff.”

The Psiioniic coughed. “Yeah?” He still wasn’t looking at him.

“I….” The Signless bit his lower lip nervously, searching for words that were running out of his brain, abandoning him. “I might have gotten a little…there was a point where I thought we weren’t going to meet again….”

“…So is this just too weird, then?” the Psiioniic asked. “Me being back? Is it not going to work?”

“I’m not saying that!” the Signless blurted out, feeling panic well up inside.

“I’m not going to blame you for sleeping with her,” he said. He put it so bluntly, so little emotion in his voice, that the words completely paralyzed the Signless. He was speechless, unable to even move his lips.

“I always thought you had,” the Psiioniic continued. He shrugged. “If it makes you feel any better, I kissed Dualscar all the time…sometimes I thought about doing the same with him, because he was there.”

_Thought about it…so you didn’t ever actually do it. Fuck I am so weak._

The Psiioniic let out a small giggle. “Heh…I kind of did think that you really knew what you were doing that other night.”

That really, really hurt. The Signless had to swallow a few times to get past the lump in his throat.

“Thorry,” the Psiioniic said immediately, getting to his feet. “Thorry, I shouldn’t have thaid that…Carmine, I’m really sorry, I’m just a little…I told you. I _told_ you I didn’t know how to be a matesprit.”

“Well, I don’t either,” the Signless replied, jumping up. “I mean, I’ve been pretty horrible so far, don’t you think?”

The Psiioniic was silent for a while, staring down at the sand. “…Are we just…are we just trying to be together because of what happened between us as wrigglers?” he asked, almost too quiet to hear.

The Signless didn’t know what to say. The whole world had gone silent.

“I mean I underthtand—I understand if we are,” the Psiioniic said falteringly, a yellow blush rising to his cheeks. “A lot’s changed. I mean, if all we really have is that first time we kissed then…then that’s not a lot to build a matespritship on…don’t you think?”

The Signless had to admit it: he’d thought a lot about the same thing. Neither the Dolorosa nor the Disciple had ever told him to forget the Psiioniic. Neither of them had ever said that he was foolish or silly for hanging on to the smallest of hopes that they’d find each other again. Rosa might have tried to tell him that in the beginning, when things looked their darkest, but she’d never said such things again. She didn’t say such things because Carmine was determined to find him again.

He’d never stopped looking, not really. He insisted they never stray too far from coastal towns. He never listened when the Dolorosa told him to stay away from areas with lots of seatrolls. Anytime he saw a psionic troll with yellow blood, he’d follow them until he was certain that it wasn’t the one he wanted. He’d seen other trolls with two different colored eyes, other trolls with four horns, it apparently wasn’t _that_ odd to find, but none of them were his. None of them his Psiioniic.

He’d always hoped that a psionic troll would hear about his being in town, that maybe they would tell others, until word got back to his Psiioniic. Night after night after night of trying to hold meetings in places where yellow bloods might gather brought him absolutely nowhere closer to finding him. Every time he met a troll who had come to see him, or heard about him through word of mouth alone, Carmine had felt a small victory. The farther his message spread, the more likely it would be that the Psiioniic heard it. And he’d know, he’d _have_ to know it was Carmine, who else, who _else_ would have mutant blood and dreams of dead eras?

When they’d first met, Carmine hadn’t known a thing. Hadn’t really known what the hemospectrum was, hadn’t really known what suffering was. Hadn’t known about slavery or oppression or unfairness or pain. Hadn’t known what it was like to have something and lose it.

If he hadn’t have met the Psiioniic, Carmine might have still dreamt. But he would never have known the significance of those dreams. He would never have known why others needed to hear them. Never would have understood the real difference between the dream and the reality.

“You’re not just some troll I kissed when I was a wriggler,” Carmine said tightly. “And that is never how I thought of you.”

He chanced a step closer, and the Psiioniic didn’t react.

“You’re pretty much the whole reason why I’m doing this,” Carmine continued. “Before, I was never part of any of this. I didn’t have a place in Alternian society but that also meant they couldn’t hurt me the way they hurt you, or Rosa, or the Disciple. But then…well, when I met you, and you told me about how you lived, how things were different for you, Alternia stopped being a place that had just rejected me, and now it’s this place that hurts somebody I love. I want to change Alternia because of that, Psiioniic. Because of you.”

Carmine reached for the Psiioniic’s hand, and when he didn’t pull it away, clung onto it tightly.

“We’re not doing this because of some warped idea that we owe something to what we had when we were little, okay?” He looked the Psiioniic straight in his red-and-blue eyes, keeping his voice steady. “No matter how important the Disciple is to me, she’s not _you_. She’ll never _be_ you. She’s never going to be the wriggler who was too embarrassed to talk to me because he had a lisp. She’s never going to be the little psionic troll who sticks his tongue out when he’s concentrating really hard or will fall asleep in the middle of _anything_ he’s doing if he lays next to the fireplace long enough.”

The Psiioniic wouldn’t look him in the eye. He gripped Carmine’s hand tightly, but the rest of him was tense. His entire face was bright yellow, and Carmine was infatuated with the sight of it.

“Stop thinking there’s something wrong with us,” Carmine said softly. “Anytime we’ve been together, we’ve always been happy, haven’t we?”

“…Yeah.” He shuffled closer and warily wrapped his arms around Carmine. “Yeah, I have.”

“So don’t worry. It’s me, Psiioniic.”

The Psiioniic’s grip tightened, knocking the breath out of Carmine for an instant. “Okay,” the Psiioniic said, small, muffled, shaky. “…Okay.”


	20. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter contains graphic violence.**

A few nights later, the group decided to stop in another city for a while. It had been a rather uneventful trip—at least, it had been after the Signless’s talk with the Psiioniic—but the Signless was grateful for the chance to rest in one place for a while. He hoped they’d be able to find somewhere fairly nice to stay, but he wasn’t going to be picky about it.

He had heard about this particular city. Few lowbloods lived here. Most of the inhabitants were high-end bluebloods, and from what the Signless had heard, the city’s neighborhoods were very strictly segregated. The small handful of redbloods that did live there were barely allowed to step outside the boundaries of their homes without being accosted. Even the bluebloods didn’t dare venture into the highblood side of town. There was almost no intermingling. People didn’t talk to each other and they certainly didn’t trust each other.

As the group walked through the streets, it seemed like every troll they passed cut them suspicious, sideways glares. The Dolorosa kept glancing over at the Signless worriedly, but he was unfazed by the unwarranted attention.

The Signless didn’t blame the others for being apprehensive about it. But the way he saw it, if they didn’t go to places like this, where things were their worst, how were things ever going to change?

To appease them, the Signless sought out their lodging in the lowblood slums. For a while he was afraid they were going to be turned away, because even the _Disciple’s_ blood caste was suspiciously high for this part of town. With the Dolorosa being even higher on the hemospectrum, the Psiioniic being…a _psionic_ , and the Signless’s anonymity, it was a miracle that they weren’t culled on sight.

But luckily they caught the innkeeper in a good mood, and she gave them two separate rooms despite her claim that she would have to explain to her moirail later why she was “letting highbloods sniff around the place.” They four of them hurried quickly to their rooms, feeling discomfort at the stares being thrown their way.

As usual, the Disciple and the Dolorosa shared a respiteblock. When the Signless and the Disciple had been small, one room was big enough for all three of them. As they had grown space was more of an issue, and they had to start investing in two respiteblocks. The Signless had refused to let either the Disciple or the Dolorosa sleep alone, feeling guilty at the thought of making either of them be by themselves. He had insisted that the two of them share a respiteblock while he slept alone, and it had become their usual arrangement.

“You’re going to have a hell of a time getting anyone to come listen to you here,” the Psiioniic said as he followed the Signless into their respiteblock. “I don’t know if coming here was a good idea….”

“You and Rosa both, worrying about every little thing!” the Signless replied. “It’ll be all right. But I figure we’ll probably lay low at least until tomorrow. Seems like we don’t really belong here, so we probably shouldn’t stir things up too much just yet.”

“If you say so.” The Psiioniic shrugged. His stomach made a small gurgle and he frowned. “Ugh. I’m hungry.”

“Then let’s go find something to eat.” The Signless grinned widely. “Come on, it’ll be like a date.”

“…A date?” The Psiioniic raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, come on, we’ve never had one of those! We’ll go get something to eat, and then maybe take a little walk or something, and then we can come back here and you can…help me sleep some more.”

The Psiioniic barely stifled his laughter. “Okay. Sounds fun.”

\---

Considering the cold reception they’d gotten on their way into town, the Signless didn’t feel entirely safe going out to buy food, though he hid it as best he could. He pulled the Psiioniic through the street, holding him tightly by the hand as if he wanted everybody to see. As if walking around in broad moonlight with his matesprit was the only thing he’d wanted to do for sweeps and sweeps.

There wasn’t much to choose from in the way of food, and in the end the best the Signless could come up with was a three-day-old loaf of bread about to be thrown out by a baker. He and the Psiioniic were already eliciting more stares than he was comfortable with, so the two of them retreated to a desolate back alley to eat their rather pitiful meal in peace.

“Sorry,” the Signless said as they sat down on decayed wooden crates. He painstakingly tore the loaf into two pieces. “Not really what I had in mind.”

The Psiioniic only smiled and took his half of the bread. “I don’t mind,” he said. Cautiously he sunk his teeth into the bread, only barely tearing a small piece away. The sharp, stale crust scraped against the inside of his mouth, threatening to draw blood.

“…This is pretty awful,” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” the Signless winced as he forced a mouthful down.

“Still,” the Psiioniic continued, chancing another bite. “It’s not… _so_ bad.” He worked on the next bite a little more before daring to swallow it. He grinned. “Yeah, it’s good.”

“Yeah, but…I can’t believe that this is what trolls here have to eat.” The Signless scowled at the pathetic chunk of bread in his hands. “Especially when there’s perfectly good food right across the street, and they can’t go there because other trolls decided they weren’t good enough for it….”

“Any food is better than no food,” the Psiioniic murmured, continuing to work his way through the bread. “But I know what you mean.”

The Signless frowned. “Well, yeah, it’s good to have food, but you shouldn’t have to settle for _this_. All the trolls here deserve better. The only reason stuff like this goes on is because we all don’t trust each other.”

“Trust isn’t something you just throw around. Neither is forgiveness.”

“Well, I never claimed that the things I’m telling people aren’t crazy,” the Signless replied with a grin. “Anyway, let’s talk about something else. Tell me about all the psionic stuff you can do now!”

“What do you mean, ‘psionic stuff’?”

“You know! You have to have learned some other tricks in all this time. Show me something!” He was smiling wide in anticipation.

“Well…” the Psiioniic said slowly, contemplating. “There was one thing I learned how to do…I figured out a way to sort of…influence other people’s emotions.”

“No way,” the Signless laughed excitedly. “Show me.”

“If you want.” The Psiioniic set down his chunk of bread and edged himself closer. Soft red and blue light flared up around his hands. “You’ll have to sort of drop your guard a little. I can’t get in if you try to keep me out, so try to relax a bit….”

“Okay.” The Signless leaned forward as the Psiioniic hovered his hands above his nubby horns. Almost instantly, the Signless winced.

“That feels weird…you’re not going to make my brain explode or anything, are you?”

“No, and be quiet,” the Psiioniic insisted. “Just…trust me a little.”

The Signless forced himself to relax, and once the initial pinprick of pain was over, he felt himself awash in utter calm. His thoughts quieted and all his excess energy floated out of his body. He felt as though he could lay down and sleep for hours and hours and hours….

“Feel that?” The Psiioniic’s familiar voice filtered through the haze. The Signless could barely muster up the will to nod.

“All right, here’s another.”

The surge of exhaustion rewound gently until it was entirely gone, and then a new sensation spilled in. Everything inside him began to feel heavy, and twisted, and uncertain…a new weariness filled him but it wasn’t like before…this time everything hurt, though there was no physical pain, and the whole world seemed meaningless and a waste…. He couldn’t remember why he was bothering with any of this, with the dreams and spreading elusive hope…. He shut his eyes tightly.

“I don’t like that one,” he mumbled, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.

“Relax,” the Psiioniic told him. “Here’s one more.”

Again, the emotion faded as meticulously as it had came, and then he felt warmth invading his mind. He smiled in spite of himself as his blood began to race faster, making him giddy and thrilled all at once. He was light-headed and bursting with purpose. The emotions from before were distant memories, ghosts that had never truly existed.

“That’s better.” The Signless giggled.

“Well, it’s only a temporary change,” the Psiioniic replied, letting the high come off slowly. “And it’s tiring to do.”

The Signless opened his eyes again. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

The Psiioniic shrugged. “I figured it out on my own. I used to practice on Dualscar but it only pissed him off.”

At the mention of Dualscar, the Signless’ face fell.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” the Psiioniic insisted. “He’s just an ass, don’t waste your energy.”

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled. “…I give a lot of speeches on forgiveness but I really…I don’t know. I guess I wish we could erase stuff, you know….”

The Signless felt a sudden, soothing pressure on his shoulders and he inhaled sharply. He looked up and the Psiioniic’s hands were surrounded in luminous, red-and-blue energies.

“Relax,” the Psiioniic told him. “This trick’s a little more physical.”

The pressure moved from his shoulders up to his head, gently stroking his hair and the bases of his horns, rubbing the tension out from his temples. As the sensation moved outward, the tactile impression remained atop his head, continuing to rub out the Signless’s tension. The Psiioniic’s touch spread out over his entire body and he started to feel heat rising to his face….

“That’s weird,” said the Signless, letting out a nervous laugh. “Weird not having your actual hands on me when you’re doing that….”

“I don’t know if I could do this with my hands,” the Psiioniic replied, his expression contorted with concentration. “Do you have any idea how tense you are?”

“Hmm, I wonder what could possibly have made me stressed?”

“I don’t have a damn clue.”

There was a piercing scream from the street. The Psiioniic stopped what he was doing immediately and jumped to his feet. Incoherent shouts were coming from somewhere far away.

“What the hell…?” the Signless murmured, standing up as the Psiioniic crept to the end of the alley. He looked out and almost instantly drew back.

“Shit,” he whispered breathlessly. “…Subjugglators.”

“What? _Here_?!” The Signless darted past him into the street, too fast for the Psiioniic to stop him.

“Wait—Carmine don’t—!” He had no choice but to follow.

There were five of the monstrous trolls in the street just outside the alleyway. Already there were a handful of dead and bleeding trolls in the dirt, the hands of the highbloods stained with orange and red blood. They laughed as they murdered, a distinct high-pitched giggling, incessant and insane. Any troll that caught their attention was swept up in their huge claws and twisted until the head popped right off with a crack and a spray of bright, filthy, low blood.

They culled indiscriminately: young wrigglers, older trolls, even lususes that crossed their path. The subjugglators left the walls smeared with color as they passed, drawing perverse smiles and grotesque rainbows. As the lower-blooded trolls ran frantically through the street, several of them fell unexpectedly, blue-tipped arrows suddenly protruding from their bodies. Those unfortunate enough to go down were easy prey for the subjugglators.

The Signless looked up, following the flight path of an arrow that had just pierced through a redblood troll. Atop one of the distant houses was a blueblood, holding an enormous longbow in one hand, kneeling down and taking aim at every troll within his sights. He fired off shot after shot, each one making its mark perfectly.

“Fuck,” the Psiioniic said breathlessly, just short of panicking. He finally caught up to the Signless, who was standing far too close to the highbloods’ path, and grabbed his hand tightly. “Let’th go, Carmine, you can’t fuck around with these trolls.”

The largest highblood of the group grabbed up a bipedal lusus, stabbing his fingers through the beast’s chest and tearing out a chunk of its body. He then turned his attention to the crying grub that the lusus had dropped, curled his fist around the little yellow body and squeezed it into deformed pulp. He giggled with a soul-piercing pitch and dragged his bloody, mustard yellow hand across his face and licked his lips.

The Psiioniic caught his breath. _I’m gonna be fucking sick…_ he thought frantically. He tugged on the Signless’s arm again, who was staring, petrified, at the scene.

“Come _on_!” he pleaded again, tugging harder.

The Psiioniic heard a distant, high-pitched whistle, and just barely gathered his thoughts in time to grab the arrow headed straight for them with his psionics. The Signless pointed up at the roof where the blueblood archer sat, already notching another arrow. The Psiioniic took aim somewhat sloppily and hurled the arrow straight back towards him, sinking it into his shoulder with a spray of bright blue.

The large highblood was now descending upon a small, trembling orangeblood wriggler, paralyzed with fear where he stood. The Signless bolted, pulling free from the Psiioniic’s grip, grabbing up the wriggler before the highblood could reach him. The subjugglator growled in frustration as the Signless ran in the other direction with the wriggler, and instantly gave pursuit.

“Shit,” the Psiioniic hissed under his breath. He ran out into the street and sent a concentrated optic blast at the enraged highblood. A satisfying splash of purple blood from where the psionics had hit him peppered the street. The subjugglator turned in the Psiioniic’s direction and roared angrily.

The Psiioniic barely scraped together the willpower and concentration necessary to levitate himself up one of the nearby walls, but no sooner had he risen a few feet than he felt something small and heavy slam against the side of his head, knocking him to the ground.

Another subjugglator was approaching him from the side, licking his lips smeared with red blood, playfully tossing a rock up and down in his hands. He took aim and threw it, and the Psiioniic attempted to dodge but the sharp edge grazed one of his horns as it went by. He cringed at the sickening feel of it.

He tried to get his bearings and push himself up to his feet, but before he could manage it the highblood was upon him. The purple-blooded monster grabbed the Psiioniic’s entire head in one hand and slammed him down to the ground. The Psiioniic’s vision went double and blurred…he could barely make out the shadow of the troll as he leaned over him, his gaping maw dripping saliva, colored with several shades of blood.

The Psiioniic panicked for an instant, and then he felt the adrenaline rush of imminent death. A surge of power built up behind his eyes and he hastily expended it, sending enormous psionic shocks straight into the subjugglator’s open, hungry mouth. The troll couldn’t even scream as the red and blue energy tore a hole straight through his head, melting his eyes and crumpling his body. The Psiioniic rolled out of the way before the highblood could fall on him, and he wiped away the splatter of indigo blood that had gathered on his face.

He scanned the street for any sign of the Signless. He heard him before he saw him.

“No stop— _STOP!_ ”

The Psiioniic whipped his head towards the Signless’s voice and saw the biggest highblood dragging the orangeblood wriggler away. The Signless had been knocked down, and the wriggler screamed and tried to claw his way out of the highblood’s grip. A moment later he was crushed beneath the subjugglator’s foot like an insect. The blood spurted out from all angles, a hefty splatter landing on the front of the Signless’s shirt.

“ _NO!_ ” he screamed again, jumping to his feet. The highblood swatted him down with his huge claw, tearing open a gash and spilling bright red blood down his forehead. The subjugglator paused a moment, then smiled, the entire lower half of his face a gruesome stretch of teeth.

He leaned in close to where the Signless was reeling on the ground and sniffed. “What a motherfucking beautiful color,” the subjugglator growled, his voice a low rumble far removed from the sound of his laughter. “I’ve been wanting a change of palette.”

A storm of panic beyond anything the Psiioniic had ever known tore through him. He frantically searched the street for anything, anything, anything….

He wrapped the next thing he saw, another one of the subjugglators, in a swathe of all his psionic power. The highblood roared in confusion and annoyance as the Psiioniic dragged her across the ground, slamming her into the subjugglator leaning above the Signless and knocking him away. Not releasing his hold on her, the Psiioniic grabbed her up again, sending her flying high into the air…and then dropped her headfirst. The highblood screamed, an unholy noise, as she came plummeting back to the ground, unable to right herself, and the sound died when she did, her head smashed against the dirt.

Besides the now incapacitated larger highblood, there were still two subjugglators alive. They were raging now at the murder of their comrades, turning their attention and fury at the Psiioniic. He flared his psionic energy as high as it would go without knocking himself out. He reached out, into the minds of the trolls charging at him, gripping their consciousness and will in a mental vice. They stopped in their tracks, though their expressions remained enraged and bloodthirsty.

The Psiioniic strained to control the pair at the same time, but he fought through it, losing precious seconds before the other highblood regained his senses and went for the Signless’s throat again. He gripped their minds tighter, turning them both to face one another, and commanded them both to raise their hands and grab one another by the neck.

 _Now squeeze,_ he thought, sweating pouring off his forehead from the exertion. _Kill. Kill each other like you killed those grubs and wrigglers._

The highbloods obeyed, their expressions wrought with confusion, and then rage, and then fear as they unwittingly began to strangle one another.

_Harder. Tighter. Twist, you fuckers. See how it feels._

He heard the simultaneous snap of their necks, and then as they fell to the ground, he released them. Immediately, he doubled over, trying to catch his breath, but there was too little time for that, he couldn’t wait or delay here any more. He ran toward where Carmine lay in the street, feeling his heart strain against his ribcage.

The last remaining highblood stared at the remains of his comrades with a bewildered expression, and then opened his mouth and _screamed_.

The roar practically shook the ground beneath them, resounding throughout the whole street and into the sky. A red tinge joined the purple irises of his eyes, the color of fury and bitter loss, and the subjugglator turned his attention to the nearest thing that he could take his despair out on.

Carmine.

The highblood heaved himself up and grabbed Carmine by the front of his shirt, screaming directly into his face. “ _Motherfucking mutant-blood!!_ ” He slammed Carmine up against the wall of a nearby house, suddenly looking large enough to swallow him whole.

“ _They’re dead!_ ” he screeched, shaking and slamming Carmine’s head repeatedly against the wall. He swatted him again across the face, coating his claw with the bright red blood pouring out for everyone to see. “My subjugglators are _dead_ you motherfucking infidel!!”

He gripped Carmine by the neck, ignoring his flailing legs and clawing fingernails as he gasped for breath fruitlessly. The highblood leaned in close to his face, every word sending spittle into Carmine’s eyes. “I’m gonna fucking _gut_ you, shitblood. I’m gonna rip every last one of your organs out through every orifice you have in your body. And I’m gonna shred you from top to bottom until you’re just the most beautiful fucking waterfall of perverted color I ever did see.”

The Psiioniic was running but it didn’t feel like he was getting any closer. Every split second was more and more precious, every instant that he wasn’t there was another lost chance to stop this, to save Carmine…. He tried to muster up another optic blast but he’d run himself dry, he needed at least a minute or two to build up energy again but he didn’t have _time_ ….

He grabbed a decent-sized rock, the closest thing he could find, and lobbed it at the highblood’s head as hard as he could. It got him right beside the eye, and the huge troll roared out again, turning his attention to the Psiioniic. The highblood snarled.

Still holding Carmine by the throat, the subjugglator approached the winded and panting Psiioniic, and punched him, dragging his claw across the yellowblood’s face. The gnarled and twisted nails dug deep into his skin, and the Psiioniic was knocked down, pressing his palm hard into the injury to ease the sting. He tried to stand back up, but the highblood kicked him down, laughing excitedly.

“I can’t decide,” the subjugglator said. “Which one of you am I going to kill, and which one am I going to make watch?” He stroked his chin contemplatively. Almost too quickly to see, he lifted Carmine up with his one hand and slammed him against the wall again.

“I think I’ll have more fun watching _you_ bleed,” he hissed quietly.

Carmine weakly spit out the blood that had pooled in his mouth. He reached out his hands, and slowly, cautiously, set them on either side of the highblood’s face.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” the highblood growled.

Carmine smiled feebly. “…I’m sorry,” he said, his voice small and so frail. “I’m sorry they’re dead.”

“Not as sorry as that other one’s going to be.” The subjugglator licked his lips again.

Carmine began to stroke the side of the highblood’s face, eliciting a peculiar stare. The smile didn’t leave his face. He winced as the highblood roared at him again, but didn’t stop.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s all right. I know it hurts to watch them die.”

For an instant there was a flicker of something else in the subjugglator’s eyes, and he paused, suddenly unsure of what to do, what to say, unsure of anything at all….

“I’m sorry,” Carmine said, continuing to stroke the highblood’s face, leaving tiny trails of red down his cheeks. “I’m sorry you lost your friends.”

The subjugglator bared his teeth angrily but said nothing. His grip on Carmine’s neck grew looser and shakier, until he threw Carmine down to the ground and spat on him. Without another word, he turned and stomped wretchedly down the street, disappearing from sight.

The Psiioniic sat up, ignoring the searing pain flickering up and down his arm, ignoring the blood pouring from his face, the soreness in all his muscles, and crawled over to where Carmine lay in a heap on the ground. His gray clothes were almost entirely stained with his red blood. His eyes were closed and he didn’t move when the Psiioniic came up beside him.

“Hey,” the Psiioniic said feebly. “Hey.” No reaction. “Carmine, get up. You have to tell me where you’re hurt—hey, wake up.”

Nothing happened. The Psiioniic could see him breathing, but it was very small, and the breaths looked painful. He flared as much energy as he had left and reached into Carmine’s head, soothing him in his unconsciousness, making sure he was relaxed, knew that the Psiioniic was right there. He focused the rest of his psionics onto the open wounds, staunching the blood all at once, straining to keep the gashes closed.

“You’ll be okay, you’ll be okay….” He whispered it over and over to nobody in particular, focusing on the words as he heard them come out of his mouth. He kept pushing comfort and reassurance into Carmine’s head, but he couldn’t focus on anything else, didn’t know when or how he was going to try to pick him up and carry him back to Rosa, because she could help him, she’d know how to heal him….

The Psiioniic hadn’t even realized that he’d grabbed onto Carmine’s hand until he felt the little squeeze. Suddenly, miraculously, Carmine took in a deep breath, wincing as his lungs filled what were probably broken ribs. He blinked his eyes open.

“…I don’t feel so good,” he mumbled. He met the Psiioniic’s frantic gaze and grinned. His teeth were bloody.

“What…what the _fuck ith wrong with you!?_ ” the Psiioniic screamed. Panicked, frightened tears began to spill down his face, and he frantically wiped them away before Carmine could see. “What the fuck were you thinking?! He wath going to kill you, Carmine, what the fuck were you thinking, trying to pull thomething like that….”

Carmine reached up and set his hand on the back of the Psiioniic’s head, stroking gently, smiling and not saying a word.

“Don’t,” the Psiioniic said, hating the way his voice was quivering. “Don’t you try to fucking ‘shush’ me like you did with that monster, you’re inthane, I’m so fucking irritated with you right now….”

“Psiioniic, I’m okay,” Carmine insisted. “I just have a broken rib or something. And my neck’s sore. But I’m okay. I’m not dead. I’m not going to die.”

It didn’t make the Psiioniic feel any better. He gripped Carmine’s hand tighter and leaned over him, resting his forehead on Carmine’s and crying like he hadn’t done in sweeps and sweeps.

“Fuck…” he said in between sobbing hiccups. Carmine was running his hand up and down his back, though the movement was stiff and strained his already sore muscles. “Don’t do thith again, okay? I can’t deal with it, Carmine, I really can’t, you really fucking thcared me.”

Carmine let him stay there, holding the Psiioniic’s hand and stroking him gently. He didn’t appear to be pained by the exertion. He didn’t care about the stinging yellow tears falling into his face, or the bloody mess intermingling on their hands.

 _Just let me keep him,_ the Psiioniic pleaded, to whoever might possibly hear. _Please. Please just let me._


	21. Forgiveness

Trolls from every direction were watching them silently. Windows were opened slowly, doors held ajar just an inch or two, as the ones who had taken cover gradually emerged. The Signless leaned on the Psiioniic as they walked back to the inn. The Psiioniic tried to ignore the whispers hidden behind hands, the wide eyes, the intakes of breath. Carmine’s blood shone brightly in the moonlight, painting him all over, but he said nothing. It was a struggle for him to even stand, and yet he insisted on walking. Halfway to the inn, the Dolorosa came running down the street, pushing past the gawking trolls.

“ _Carmine!_ ” she shouted frantically, resisting the urge to grab him up in a fierce embrace as she saw the state of him. Her eyes moved up and down his body, and she grabbed the edges of his cloak, pulling it tighter around him so nobody would see….

“It’s all right, Rosa,” he said, his voice raspy, but she wasn’t listening.

“Are you all right? Oh my little grub, what happened, who did this…Psiioniic, are you hurt? What happened to your face, oh Mother grub….”

She pulled Carmine’s free arm over her shoulders and assisted them towards the inn. By the time they arrived, there was a sizable group of trolls following at a distance. More were gathering in the street, whispering to one another, pointing, rumors and embellishments beginning before the blood of the slaughter had even dried.

The Disciple was attempting to politely shoo people away from the door of the inn as the Psiioniic and the Dolorosa walked the Signless inside. Their number had grown inexplicably fast, all of them trying to catch a glimpse of him, the signless troll with the candy red blood who had stopped a subjugglator.

They didn’t get any privacy until they were finally back in the Signless’s respiteblock. They set him down in his sopor slime, and then the Dolorosa ran back downstairs, only to return moments later with food and something warm to drink. She fussed until the Signless ate and drank it all, then she scurried out of the room again, returning this time with several rolls of bandages and medicine, cleaning up the wounds she could find and wrapping them up tightly. The Psiioniic said nothing through the entire ordeal, only moving to assist the Dolorosa if she requested it. She offered to bandage a few of the Psiioniic’s own injuries, ignoring him when he insisted that he was fine. The Disciple remained outside the door, trying to get the crowd of awestruck trolls to leave.

It was an hour before the Dolorosa was content to leave the Signless alone to rest. She wordlessly gathered up everything and left the respiteblock, her eyes weary. It was deathly silent in the room for several minutes. The Psiioniic thought that Carmine had fallen asleep until his matesprit spoke.

“I feel like something good is happening,” he murmured.

“…All those trolls think you’re a hero,” the Psiioniic told him. “They all saw what you did. They’re telling everybody about it. I bet you even bluebloods are going to hear about it by the end of the night.”

Carmine laughed quietly, wincing as his broken ribs jostled. “I didn’t mean that. I mean…every troll here saw my blood color. All of them.”

The Psiioniic smiled in spite of himself. “Yeah,” he replied. “You do have a beautiful color.”

“I bet if we held a meeting tonight, every troll in this neighborhood would come. Maybe even trolls from other parts of the city! I think I’ve had bluebloods at my speeches maybe twice…I wish more would come, maybe this is my chance….”

“We’re not doing that,” the Psiioniic said firmly. “That’s the worst idea. You’d be _culled_ if you made yourself any more public right now.”

Carmine pouted, shooting him the expression of an affronted wriggler. “But I have to, we might not get another chance as good as this….”

“At the very _least_ wait until your bruises heal!” the Psiioniic shouted, rage from earlier welling up. “I thtill don’t think you understand how reckleth that was. That highblood was going to kill you.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Carmine replied confidently.

“He _was_!” the Psiioniic shouted, uncertain where the fury was coming from. “Why don’t you get it?! Your dreams are good, Carmine, but in reality highbloods are bad people! Highbloods and seatrolls and even the tealbloods, they’re all a bunch of fucking _liars_! They don’t deserve your pity!”

“Why?” Carmine asked conversationally, unfazed by the outburst. “Why don’t they?”

“Because—because they’re lying, murdering, condescending bastards. They treat everyone below them like a fucking joke and…and you saw what they did, Carmine! You tried to save that wriggler but the fucking subjugglator just crushed him, how could you say that _trolls like that deserve anything?!_ ”

“Don’t you think they say the same thing about you?”

“They might, but _they’re_ wrong.”

Carmine stifled a laugh. “It just goes ‘round in a circle, Psiioniic. They hate you, so you hate them back. So when does it stop? Do you think we can end it by just pushing back against one another all the time? Wouldn’t it be easier to just let up a bit, and then we can all stop hating?”

“It’s not that simple,” the Psiioniic insisted, shaking his head. “Maybe I don’t really understand what you’re trying to tell people, Carmine…because what you’re telling me right now, I don’t believe it. I’ve never believed it.”

“Well…” Carmine said, adjusting himself in the sopor slime a bit. “Tell me what you don’t get…and I’ll try to explain it so you’ll understand.”

The Psiioniic tried to protest, but the energy drained out of him. Sighing heavily, he dragged a chair over to the side of Carmine’s recuperacoon and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You really should be trying to get some sleep,” he mumbled.

“I’m not tired,” Carmine told him.

“I just…it doesn’t make any thense to me….”

There was a short pause before Carmine spoke. “Tell me. Why is it hard for you to forgive the highbloods?”

“They don’t deserve my forgiveness,” he replied bitterly. “If I did that it’d be like giving up. Like saying everything they did was all okay.”

“That’s not what it is. Not at all…it’s you letting go of your hate for them.”

“Fuck that,” the Psiioniic snapped, starting to get frustrated. “I was fucking three sweeps old when they killed my lusus…four when Dualscar took me, and started making me kill other trolls….”

“Your hate’s doing nothing but making you miserable. It’s not hurting them. It’s not exacting any kind of revenge or justice on them. The only one suffering is you, Psiioniic.”

The Psiioniic was grabbing the side of his head with one hand, aggravation in every motion he made. He looked like he was trying to say something, but nothing was forming right in his head….

“Just let it go, Psiioniic,” Carmine said. “Your hate’s not going to do anything. You being angry doesn’t hurt them and it doesn’t make them sorry. You can’t change what they did. So forget it.”

“I can’t,” the Psiioniic replied, his face hidden but his voice laced with restraint. “I can’t because they fucking….” He stopped, trailing off incoherently.

Carmine waited until the yellowblood mustered up the resolve to talk again. “I knew they’d be coming,” the Psiioniic said, not raising his head. “My lusus told me, in its own little way it knew how to tell me…and when the trolls from the facility showed up they just…I didn’t even get to take anything with me, and they just slit my lusus’ throat.” He went silent, then continued, much quieter: “They fucking slit its throat, they killed it because of me.”

Carmine tried to imagine, if he’d been three sweeps old, and seen other trolls do that to Rosa. He swallowed tightly. No, he couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t even come close to replicating the fear and bitter grief that must have ravaged a little wriggler’s heart that night.

“They kept telling me…that I had thionic abilities greater than anybody elth…that I was going to be great one day, that my luthus would be proud, if it could see me… but every night I was there, I wanted to die. I wanted to kill mythelf, I thought of so many ways to do it, I tried to stopped eating but they forced me, I tried to use my psionics wrong but they thtopped me….”

Carmine had barely known what death was when he’d met the Psiioniic. He wasn’t even sure if he knew how to face it _now_. To be wishing for it, to be searching for ways to bring it upon yourself, at that age, to know what the loss of hope was so intensely that you actually prayed to stop breathing….

“And I was never happy, I was _never happy_ , not a thingle fucking night, until I met you, Carmine.” Another pause. “And they did that to me. They were the ones that made me mitherable. Juth because they were bigger than me, or higher-blooded, or whatever the fuck excuth they had.”

Carmine reached out, setting his sopor-covered hand atop the Psiioniic’s head, running his fingers gently through the yellowblood’s hair. “What else?”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘what else’?” the Psiioniic snapped back half-heartedly.

“Tell me what else you think you can’t forgive. Why don’t you tell me about Dualscar? You never talk to me about him.”

The Psiioniic took in a deep, slow breath. He let it out quietly as Carmine continued to comb his fingertips through his hair. It was quiet, hopelessly still and unchanging, but at some point the silence had to break. At some point, reality would come back, and they’d have to face it one way or another.

“…It’s just all too fucked up,” the Psiioniic mumbled. “All of it. How’s any of it going to change, Carmine? Ever?”

“One thing at a time,” he replied. “That’s the only way anything changes.”

“I _can’t_ forgive Dualscar, I don’t care what you say. He’s a fucking flap-licking drunk who goes out of his way to make me miserable. I don’t even know how he does it, he just knows everything about me. He knows I’m afraid of water, he knows exactly where to hit me to make it hurt the worst, he knows the exact fucking thing to say to hurt me the most…fuck, I don’t even remember how he dragged it out of me, Carmine, but he even knows about you.”

Carmine’s eyebrows went up. “He does?”

“Yes! And every so often, every fucking _week_ , it felt like, he’d be drunk and he’d ask me, ‘where’s your matesprit,’ ‘how come your matesprit left you,’ ‘why don’t we go try to find him and see if he’ll want you back,’ ‘why don’t you come here and we can pretend I’m your matesprit and I’ll show you how matesprits are supposed to _fuck_ ’!!”

The Psiioniic wiped his eyes angrily, focusing all his attention on the far wall, his cheeks filling up with intense yellow heat. “…‘Just pretend I’m him,’ was what he’d say. ‘Pretend I’m him.’ ‘Just kiss me, little grub,’ he’d say.” He fumbled over his next words, swallowed, and regained his composure.

“‘If you call me by his name I can pretend I’m him too,’ he told me. …I never called him by your name. I fucking… _couldn’t_. He doesn’t know your name, he tried to beat it out of me but I never told him anything.”

The Psiioniic felt Carmine’s hand tense up within his hair. Carmine’s voice was barely controlled, barely audible, as he asked, “…Did Dualscar…did he ever…?”

“No,” the Psiioniic replied, shaking his head fervently. He could practically hear Carmine let out the nervous breath he’d been holding. “No, never. I never let him. Not fucking once. You…were the only one.”

More silence. It felt like sweeps had passed since they’d left this respiteblock earlier in the night, just to get some food, just to do something normal, Carmine had been so excited to finally take him somewhere, and now he was lying incapacitated in his recuperacoon, just barely having escaped an undignified death by subjugglators….

“So tell me how the hell am I supposed to forgive him?” the Psiioniic demanded wearily.

“It’s not easy,” Carmine replied softly. “If it were easy it wouldn’t mean much. It really isn’t a small thing; but if you did forgive Dualscar, what are you afraid would happen?”

“If I forgive him then he wins.”

“Wins what? Wins at being the biggest asshole on Alternia?”

“If I forgave him,” the Psiioniic said, raising his voice a little, “then that would mean that everything he ever did was okay. He’d never feel sorry for it because he’d think I didn’t care. That nothing he did was wrong.”

“I think,” Carmine replied, gazing thoughtfully at another part of the room, “you’re thinking of something else. Forgiveness is _not_ just telling somebody who hurt you that what they did was all right. Forgiveness is telling somebody who hurt you that while they did hurt you, and that what they did was wrong, you’re not going to hold them accountable for it. You’re not going to hate them for it.”

The Psiioniic laughed humorlessly. “So what _is_ the appropriate way to feel towards somebody like Dualscar, if I’m not supposed to hate him?”

“Well, I don’t know. You could always just feel sorry for him.”

The bitter laugh continued. “Right. That’s easy enough.” The sound faded away and the Psiioniic fell silent once again. For a long, long while they sat in silence. A few faint footsteps plodded down the hallway outside the door.

“I don’t expect you to deal with your entire life in one night,” Carmine said, his quiet voice eventually breaking through the silence. “But you can tell me anything, whenever you want.”

“…All right,” the Psiioniic replied. He took hold of Carmine’s hand, setting it back in the recuperacoon with him. “But for now, you go to sleep.”

“I’m still not tired,” Carmine said, trying to situate himself more comfortably inside the cocoon. “Why don’t you…would you mind…?”

The Psiioniic nodded, and the soft, fiery energies swirled up around his hands again. He laid one atop Carmine’s forehead, willing relaxation and sleep into him, gently rubbing his temples as Carmine’s eyelids began to close slowly.

“Thanks…” the Signless mumbled, smiling and breathing in deep. “But don’t let me sleep too long….”

He was already out. The Psiioniic sat back in his chair, exhaling wearily. He didn’t feel like getting up. He didn’t feel like trying to sleep. He didn’t feel like doing anything except sit there, next to the Signless as he slept, let his thoughts run into his head and back out again.

\---

The arrow in his shoulder didn’t hurt, not really. It hadn’t even sunk in too deeply; Darkleer had been able to yank it out cleanly, needing only a small bandage to staunch the blood flow. It was odd, seeing his own color on the arrowhead. A quick cleaning would take care of that, and then it would find its way to its rightful place, between the eyes of a rustblood.

He felt confident that he’d make it back to the city center before the Grand Highblood and his subjugglators. He already doubted that the Highblood had even remembered that he’d dragged Darkleer along. In any case, it became clear quickly that the subjugglators didn’t need his assistance, and Darkleer had slinked off quietly after the psionic troll had thrown his arrow back at him.

He unstrung his longbow as he walked through the street. The lower blue- and tealbloods diverted their paths before him, several of them flashing ingratiating smiles in his direction. He didn’t react to them. He passed a loud tavern on his right, staring longingly—and ashamedly—through the window at the bluebloods reveling within. It’d be so nice to have a drink if only he could be around highbloods that acted _properly_. He didn’t see why a bit of alcohol had to turn every upstanding blueblood around into a disgusting rustblooded savage.

Darkleer headed down towards the main hub of town, where the subjugglator hall was situated. It was hard to miss this eyesore: the wide, flat building had been constructed to emulate the look of a tent, every last inch of it painted with faded, grotesque rainbows. None of the hues matched the way real troll blood should look; they were sickly-looking shades. Thin, crooked spikes dotted the outside roof, distant, dripping spheres adorning their tips. The building was too tall for someone to make out their true shape from the ground, but Darkleer knew what they were. He diverted his eyes from them as he strolled in through the front door.

As gruesome as the outside of the metal tent was, the interior was worse. Nervously, Darkleer reached up, adjusting the darkened lenses on his face. They blocked out most of the vulgar decorations, rendering the bright, fresh splotches on the walls to colorless smears of brown, black, and gray. Nothing, however, could stifle the smell, the pervasive odor of hot, metallic blood.

Darkleer subconsciously held his breath as he wound his way through the labyrinthine corridors, towards the innermost room, the Grand Highblood’s chamber.

From the roars and screams that grew louder with each inward turn down the spiral hallways, Darkleer figured that the Grand Highblood had made it back before him after all. In truth, Darkleer wasn’t surprised. It wasn’t as though he’d made straight for the hall after absconding from the slums. As usual, he took his time arriving anywhere he was to be greeted by subjugglators.

As Darkleer discreetly stepped into the Highblood’s chamber, he saw that several other highbloods and a few bluebloods were there as well, all of them frantically trying to get a word in edgewise. The Grand Highblood was hearing none of them. The aroma of fresh death was in every corner of the room, and Darkleer saw the twitching, mangled bodies of a redblood and a greenblood at the Highblood’s feet. Darkleer winced. He recognized that redblood: she had served him his dinner earlier that evening.

“I lost _four_ of my subjugglators!!” the Grand Highblood roared, making the whole crowd of trolls cringe in unison. “ _Four_ of them!” he shouted, grabbing up an unfortunate blueblood in one massive fist and tossing her across the floor.

“Not only that, I have a motherfucking _mutant_ walking my streets! Which one of you fuckers let this information get past you!?”

“Highblood, we thought the rebel was only a rumor,” said one particularly brave purpleblood. “We heard tales of him but…but you understand, we thought it was a glorified story some lowblood made up. No troll on Alternia has bright red blood….”

“Yes, a troll on Alternia _fucking does_.” The Grand Highblood narrowed his eyes, bright, insane indigo flaring out from behind white paint and a miasma of hair. “He’s fucking out there, in the ghetto right the _fuck_ now stirring up who knows what other shit—” He paused, seemingly seeing Darkleer for the first time.

“And YOU!” he shouted. The crowd of trolls instantly split, nobody willing to put themselves between Darkleer and the Highblood. The Highblood stomped forward, stopping only inches from Darkleer’s face. “Where the fuck did _you_ run off to, you motherfucking coward!?”

“Ah…Highblood…” Darkleer muttered, resisting the urge to wipe away the sweat beading on his forehead. “Forgive me, I took an arrow to the shoulder.”

“Funny. Seems to me you were the one shooting them off. How the fuck does an archer get hit with his own arrow?”

“Allow me to beg your pardon, Highblood,” Darkleer said. The Highblood exhaled loudly, his warm, stinking breath billowing in Darkleer’s face.

“All you motherfuckers get out,” the Grand Highblood announced. The trolls wasted no time in scurrying out into the hallway, leaving only him and Darkleer behind.

“Seems to me you’re stuck more in that rut than I thought,” the Grand Highblood said, meandering over to his rainbow-crusted chair and sinking deeply into it. He ran one claw through his cloud of black hair. “Thought this outing would get your peasant blood flowing again.”

Darkleer shrugged. “I thought it might too, but…Highblood, it’s just too easy. Picking on the rustbloods. They’re such easy targets, they don’t resist or fight back, it’s truly a waste of both your and my time. If I may say so.”

The Grand Highblood rested his chin on one claw, staring at the wall pensively. “Perhaps,” he conceded after a moment of silence. “But this motherfucking mutant infidel got himself right the fuck under my skin. You heard much about him?”

“Only the rumors, Highblood. That he has no sign. That he carries a mutated blood color. That he spreads heresy, the sickest lies, and he plots directly against you and Her Imperious Condescension.”

The purpleblooded giant nodded. “Seems the stories are true after all. And the idiot seemed to have waltzed himself straight into my lap.” He paused, contemplating something. “You know…it would be easy for me. I could squash him so quickly it wouldn’t even be fun.” A smile spread slowly across his face. “Maybe you should head this one up.”

Darkleer’s eyes widened behind his shades. “S-sir?”

“You know how to deal with these uppity motherfucking rebel-types,” the Grand Highblood said, getting up from his chair. “Wasn’t that your great accomplishment?”

“Well, yes…but….” Darkleer tugged at his collar. “This one sounds…different than the others….”

“They’re all just rustbloods. Just fuckin’ paint for my wicked pictures.” The Grand Highblood licked his lips, smiling. “You said you weren’t excited anymore. Said you couldn’t find it in you. Well, here’s something new, something really motherfucking exciting for you. Bring me this fucking mutant. Bring him to me alive and squirming, fresh and full of that beautiful red blood. Kill everybody that listens to his shit, kill anybody he has in a quadrant, kill _every motherfucker_ that even knows his name. When you are finished with him I want Alternia fuckin’ _awash_ in the most beautiful motherfucking rainbow tides.”

Darkleer swallowed as the Highblood leaned over him, his eyes cutting straight through him, staring right past his shades and down into his filthy blueblooded soul.

“Yes, Highblood,” he said. “As you say.”


	22. Spectacle

It had taken hours for the crowd of trolls to disperse. The Disciple felt as though she’d answered every possible question a thousand times. At first she’d been able to keep them on the doorstep, but they’d slowly eased their way in, not violently or roughly, but with a gradual creep. They filled the lobby of the inn, to the immense pleasure of the innkeeper, who was ecstatic that her inn could be famous now for housing such a remarkable troll as the Signless. The crowd had backed the Disciple halfway up the stairs before the innkeeper’s moirail came in and forcefully cleared them out.

Tiring as it had been, the Disciple felt a swell of excitement. So many trolls, just wanting to know, who was he, is his blood really that color, can we see him, how did he do that with the subjugglator…. The Disciple hoped the Signless would recover quickly, before what had happened today became myth, a tall tale of yesterday. If they held a meeting now, while the incident was fresh in the people’s minds, while they were still bursting with curiosity and excitement, it would mean something. The word would get somewhere worth going.

She only hoped it wouldn’t bring misfortune down on these people once the highbloods heard it too.

Now was as good a time as any to go scouting for their next gathering place, especially now that the innkeeper and her moirail were starting to argue. The Disciple slipped out unnoticed, heading around the back of the inn and down a hidden alley.

It was easy for her to walk the streets unnoticed. A predator’s skill was measured by how well they could render themselves invisible. There had to be finesse; prey should never know they were about to die until a split second before it happened. That was the best way, the preferable way. And so the Disciple strolled through the shadows, leapt silently over rooftops, searching for spots where trolls didn’t gather, areas that were dim and abandoned. Places that people had forgotten, and would easily forget again.

It hadn’t crossed her mind, but it was inevitable that she would come across the carnage. The area where the subjugglators had rampaged was still covered in the fresh remains of slaughtered trolls. She was on a rooftop when the smell tumbled over her, and the sight of it was worse than she imagined. A few trolls were halfheartedly sweeping away the corpses, no reverence in their actions, only a quiet desperation to return things to normal. The dead trolls and wrigglers—there was even a grub’s body there, she realized with a lurch of nausea—were just refuse to be cleaned away. Just garbage dirtying the streets. She clenched her fists and tried to remember what the Signless would say about anger solving nothing. The Disciple sat down on the edge of the rooftop, her eyes continuing to scan the streets below.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up before she even heard the footsteps. She leapt up, whirling around, claws out, instantly scrutinizing every detail of the massive blueblood approaching her.

She had already come up with five places and methods to attack him when the blueblood raised his empty hands.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, his expression unreadable behind thick, black lenses. The Disciple glared at him, refusing to relax her aggressive stance.

“I don’t like being snuck up on,” she hissed, baring her fangs. “What do you want?”

The blueblood shrugged, keeping his hands up for her to see. “I don’t want anything. I’m just passing through.”

The Disciple grinned humorlessly. “What’s a blueblood want in a place like this? You’re an awful liar, do you know that? I can even see you sweating.”

“Oh dear.” The blueblood wiped his forehead with the back of one hand. “I suppose I am.”

“If you’re done, I’d appreciate getting my personal space back.”

“You certainly talk big for a little greenblood. Didn’t your lusus teach you the value of respecting your betters?”

“Didn’t _yours_ teach you that blood color doesn’t determine a troll’s worth?” She gripped her fists tighter. “Bluebloods like you make me sick. I bet you don’t even know about all the trolls that died tonight. I bet you don’t even care how it happened.” She pointed over the rooftop’s edge. “Look down there and justify that to me. Go on, do it. Walk your smug ass over here and _look_.”

There was a charged moment of hesitation, and then the blueblood complied. The Disciple didn’t take her gaze off him for an instant as he slowly walked to the edge of the roof and peered down at the remains of that night’s carnage. She could see beads of perspiration gathering on the blueblood’s forehead, but to his credit he stared long and hard. Watching as trolls scurried to clear the corpses from the streets, as other trolls stepped over the bodies of dead children, pretending not to see, as trolls scrubbed lifelessly at the smeared blood on the walls of their houses, trying to clean away the mark of the subjugglators. Until next time.

“I suppose you have some good reason for why they ‘deserved’ this,” the Disciple growled as the blueblood beheld the scene. “Let me guess. You’re going to say it’s because they’re lower on the hemospectrum, huh? Because they’re inferior, it’s their own fault for not being born higher. You’re going to say it’s because of color, because of something that has _nothing_ to do with kind of a person somebody is. Isn’t that what you’re going to say?”

It didn’t appear as though the blueblood was listening. He continued to look down from the roof, seeming to ignore the Disciple as he took it all in. He neither moved nor spoke until the last of the bodies was cleared away, until the only evidence of the slaughter was the fading, messy splatter on the loose gravel. Even that was on its way to disappearing as the dust and wind shifted, burying the last remnants of atrocity.

“What’s your name?” the blueblood asked softly, finally turning his gaze back towards her.

The Disciple paused. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Seems proper. If we’re to hold a conversation.”

“…You first then.”

“Very well. You may call me Darkleer. And what shall I call you?”

She relaxed just a little, straightening herself. “…The Disciple.”

Darkleer smirked, raising an eyebrow. “And whose disciple are you?”

“He’s a better troll than you. That’s all you need to know.”

“I see.” Darkleer paused a moment, studying her. “And are they his words you’re spouting off at me about the hemospectrum, or your own? Did he plant those ideas in your head?”

The Disciple bared her teeth again, but Darkleer just laughed.

“I’m sorry. I forgot that I’m untrustworthy. Because I’m a blueblood.”

The Disciple slowly closed her mouth, scowling through the green blush that was spreading over her cheeks.

“Tell me more,” Darkleer said. “I want to know what else he’s told you.”

“If you’re really that interested,” the Disciple replied quietly, “then all you have to do is come find us.” She paused. “He talks to everybody who’s willing to listen.”

Without waiting for a response or reaction, the Disciple turned and leapt nimbly off the roof, leaving Darkleer behind. She knew he wasn’t following her. She’d be able to tell if he was there, but it seemed like he was leaving her alone. When she landed back on the street, she felt a little twinge of guilt, mixed with…excitement? The Signless always wanted more of the “higher” blooded trolls to come listen to his sermons. Maybe Darkleer was genuine. Or maybe he was just another liar.

 _Distrust keeps us from moving,_ the Signless had told her once. _It has to start somewhere._

So she swallowed tightly past the nervous lump in her throat, and headed back towards the inn.

\---

The Signless awoke slowly, blinking his eyes groggily. He felt drugged, weary, sore…gradually he remembered why he had been in the recuperacoon at all. The details of the subjugglator’s rampage came back in hazy, broken pieces, and he swallowed tightly, recalling the feel of the highblood’s claws squeezing air out of his neck.

He sat up out of the sopor slime to find the Psiioniic sitting next to him with a weary smile. Some of the weight on the Signless’ heart lifted.

“How long have I been asleep?” the Signless asked, wiping his eyes with sopor-covered fingers.

“Two nights,” the Psiioniic replied. The Signless’ eyes flew open, his mouth hanging open.

“ _What?_ ” he squeaked, aghast.

“I’m messing with you. It’s been four hours.” The Psiioniic leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re up. Feeling better?”

The Signless exhaled, relieved, and grinned widely. “Yeah.”

“Carmine!” The Signless looked up and the Dolorosa was hurrying across the room. She threw her arms around his shoulders, squeezing gently. “Oh, my little grub, how are you feeling? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Rosa,” he replied as she touched his face all over, searching for any sign of a fever. “I’m hungry, though.”

Almost out of nowhere the Disciple appeared, leaning over the edge of the recuperacoon and smiling, the tips of her fangs sticking out. “Wait ‘til you see all the stuff we got! We got enough food to last us almost four nights!”

The Signless frowned. “How? From where?”

The Disciple gestured to the other side of the room. Strewn all over the floor were offerings of all kinds: food, flowers, clothing, medicine, letters, toys…the Signless’ face fell.

“Where did these come from?” he asked, his voice small.

“They’re gifts,” the Dolorosa explained. “The innkeeper said that trolls kept coming in and leaving things for you. Carmine, everyone knows what you did. They’re very excited about it, and about you.”

“But….” The Signless stiffly pulled himself out of the recuperacoon, grabbing onto the Psiioniic to steady himself. “We can’t accept these. This is probably all those trolls have. No, we’ve got to give it back.”

The Disciple pouted. “I told you he was going to say that…” she muttered at the Dolorosa, crossing her arms over her chest.

“We could probably use some of it, Carmine,” the Dolorosa said. “Like this salve here, it would be useful for the next time the Disciple gets a thorn in her hand and waits until it’s infected to tell me about it.”

“I’m serious, Rosa,” the Signless replied as the Disciple discreetly stuck her tongue out in the Dolorosa’s direction. “We’ve always managed fine on our own. We don’t have to take these things from trolls that really need it.”

The Dolorosa shrugged and smiled. “Whatever you decide, love.”

The Signless knelt down on the floor with some difficulty. He began sifting through the gifts, sorting everything into separate piles. “I’ll bring them with me to our next meeting, and I’ll tell them thanks, but I don’t want to take things from them. See if I can convince people to let their neighbors have it, since they might need it more than I do….”

“Well, at the very least,” the Psiioniic said, coming over and sitting down next to him, “you should eat something.”

“When I’m done,” the Signless promised, not looking up. The Psiioniic could tell it was no use arguing, so he began sorting through the mountain of presents as well.

It took longer than expected, and every so often the Dolorosa or the Disciple would try to persuade the Signless to keep just this one thing, just this one little trinket that they could use—even the Psiioniic saw a coat he liked—but the Signless said no every time. They would either have to keep everything or keep nothing. And since keeping everything was out of the question, there was no discussion on the alternative.

“All right,” the Signless said once they were finished. “Now…how are we going to carry all this stuff?”

“I’ll go empty out some of the bags,” the Dolorosa said, getting to her feet. The Disciple jumped up as well.

“I’ll help you, Rosa,” she declared happily, bounding out of the room after her.

“Okay,” the Psiioniic said once they were alone. The Signless was studying the piles intently. “Now you have to eat something.” The Psiioniic reached for a paper bag that been laid beside his chair and opened it up, revealing a thick, warm sandwich.

“Where’d you get that?” The Signless eyed it suspiciously, even as his stomach growled from the fresh aroma. “It didn’t come from the pile, did it?”

“No,” the Psiioniic replied, thrusting it into his hands. “I bought it. Now will you eat already?”

The Signless narrowed his eyes at him. “Where’d you buy it from?”

“In town, all right? I asked Rosa to watch you while I went out to get something because I knew you’d be starving.” Worry flashed through his eyes. “Did I mess it up? I thought roast musclebeast was your favorite…and I got the bread without the seeds in it…isn’t that right?”

“No, no, it’s perfect! That’s not what I’m—” He paused, gathered his thoughts, and exhaled lightly. “I _know_ you didn’t buy this here. How’d you get it, Psiioniic?”

“I just—” The Psiioniic scowled, his face flushed yellow, and he averted his eyes. “I just snuck over to the blueblood side of town…pretended like I was picking something up for Dualscar, I just showed them my mark and they gave it to me for free.”

The Signless slowly closed his eyes, sighing in frustration. “Psiioniic…” he started to say.

“Look, I just wanted to give you something besides stale bread to eat, all right?” the Psiioniic interjected, his voice quiet. “And I just showed one person, it’s not like there were even any seatrolls around….”

They fell quiet. Any moment now the Dolorosa and the Disciple would be back.

“I don’t want you to do that again,” the Signless said softly. “Thanks for thinking of me, but just…please, don’t do that again. What if that troll knew Dualscar? What if that troll had tried to do something…I’m freaking out just thinking about it.”

“Hmm,” the Psiioniic replied with a cheeky smile. “Kinda upsetting when somebody you care about endangers themselves, isn’t it?”

“Okay, okay.” He rolled his eyes and looked hungrily at the sandwich. “Even though I completely disagree with the method in which this was acquired, the sandwich itself is not the issue. I’ll eat it. But begrudgingly.” He opened his mouth and took an enormous bite.

“I’ll take begrudgingly,” said the Psiioniic.

In no time at all the sandwich disappeared. The Psiioniic watched the Signless devour it in no fewer than four bites, and figured maybe he should have gotten two. When it was finished, the Signless stared confusedly at his empty hands, as if he had surprised even himself with how quickly he ate it.

“I don’t know why you complain about eating,” the Psiioniic said, positioning himself closer. “It takes you all of two seconds.”

He reached up and gently grabbed the bandage on the Signless’ face, pulling as slowly as he could. The Signless winced.

“What are you doing?” he whined.

“I have to check this,” the yellowblood replied, deeply focused. “You already bled through the bandage, Rosa said to change it when you woke up….”

Painstakingly, he removed the bloodied bandage and scowled at the sight of the gash underneath as if it had personally offended him. He got up and went over to where the Dolorosa had set down her small collection of gauze and medicine. _I think she used the stuff in the blue bottle…let me see…._ He unscrewed a few of the small jars until he found the one that looked familiar, then took it and the gauze back over to where Carmine sat, grinning widely.

“What?” the Psiioniic asked, sitting down.

“Nothing,” Carmine replied, a faint blush on his face.

“…Okay. Here, hold still.” He rubbed a bit of the unguent into the gash, trying to ignore Carmine’s cringing as he scrunched up his face against the sting. The Psiioniic ripped off a suitable length of gauze and pressed it firmly onto Carmine’s cheek.

“You still do it,” Carmine said, smiling ear to ear.

“Do what?”

“Stick your tongue out through your fangs when you’re trying to focus.”

The Psiioniic stared for a moment, then laughed. “I guess I do. I never noticed.” He smoothed out the corners of the bandage, admittedly letting his fingertips linger longer than they needed to on Carmine’s face.

“Sorry, by the way,” Carmine said suddenly.

“For what?” The Psiioniic frowned.

“Our date didn’t really…go as planned.” He averted his red eyes, a shy smile on his face. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

There was a short pause between them. Carmine wouldn’t look up, a little blush spreading across his face. A little smile eased its way into the Psiioniic’s expression.

“I had a good time,” the yellowblood insisted, tossing Carmine’s cloak over his shoulder. He began to unwrap the bandage around Carmine’s upper arm. “Except for the end there, it was fun.”

“Yeah,” Carmine replied half-heartedly, wincing as the Psiioniic tore the bandage free. “Stale bread in the back alley of the ghetto. It’s apparently the best I can do.”

The Psiioniic didn’t say anything as he rubbed salve into the open wound. Carmine sighed wistfully. “I didn’t even want Rosa to come with me, you know,” he murmured quietly. “The Disciple, either.”

“Come with you where?”

“When I decided that I was going to tell everyone about my dreams, and try to make them real again. I didn’t want them to come along. I knew it’d be dangerous, I knew I didn’t want to ever settle down in one place, I knew that I’d be doing something that would make the highbloods upset. …I wanted them to just let me go, let me be by myself, and then they could go live in peace somewhere else. Somewhere where nobody would hurt them because of me.”

The Psiioniic grinned. “Do you really think you’d ever get Rosa to leave you?”

“Yeah, she said as much to me too. I just wish I was able to give her as much as she gave me.”

“Well, you’re giving her hope, aren’t you? The same thing you’re trying to give every troll: hope that your life won’t be determined by the color of your blood. Carmine, she knew what she was doing. I really doubt she’d rather be anywhere else than with you.”

“Heh…I guess. But…that reminds me, what’s taking them so long?”

The Psiioniic wrapped up the new bandage and turned towards the door. “I don’t know. It shouldn’t take them _this_ long….”

They both got to their feet and went out into the hall. Almost instantly they could hear raised voices coming from the Dolorosa and Disciple’s respiteblock. Cautiously, Carmine knocked on the door, and the voices silenced. The door opened and the Dolorosa stared out at them, irritation in all her features.

“Oh, I apologize, Carmine—come in, come in,” she said, opening the door wider to let the pair of them in. The Disciple was sitting on a chair against the far wall, arms crossed, her face set in a theatrical pout.

“Here,” the Dolorosa said, turning to the Disciple angrily. “Why don’t you just tell him yourself, see what he says?”

“What?” the Signless asked, looking frantically back and forth between his lusus and the Disciple. “What’s going on, what happened?”

“Rosa’s making _way_ too big a deal out of something!” the Disciple shouted, jumping up to her feet. “All I did was tell a blueblood about our meetings. That’s _all_. And she’s acting like I wrote down our address and sent it straight to the Condesce!!”

“You told me it was a tall blueblood male carrying a longbow. Wasn’t that right?” the Dolorosa asked.

“ _Yes_ , Rosa, but for the last time I don’t see—”

“Carmine,” the Dolorosa said, turning towards him. She exhaled quietly, rubbed her temples between her fingers, then began wringing her hands anxiously. “Do you remember…do you remember the night they came to burn our hive?”

“…Yeah. I do.”

“The troll leading them…it was a blueblood, and he carried a longbow with him. I could never forget the sight of him.”

“Wait,” the Psiioniic said suddenly. “There was a troll shooting off arrows in the slums earlier. He was shooting down trolls so they couldn’t run away from the subjugglators.”

“Y-…you didn’t tell me _that_ , Rosa!” the Disciple shouted, little green tears pooling in her eyes. “I didn’t…it might not even be the same troll…you just want to make me look bad in front of him!”

“No, I don’t,” the Dolorosa replied, trying to calm her own voice. “I just think it was reckless, I wish you had told us he approached you before you decided to tell him anything….”

The Disciple’s eyes widened, and tears began to pour down her face. She turned and stared at the Signless, her lips quivering, and said, “Signless…do you hear this, she thinks I’m stupid. Rosa thinks I’m reckless.”

“That’s not what she said—” the Signless tried to say, truly at a loss for what to do, suddenly pulled into the middle of this.

“I’d never do anything to put us in danger, I’d never _do_ that, Carmine!” the Disciple cried, wiping her eyes furiously. “He just…you told me…you always said to try and stop distrusting _everybody_ , I thought you’d _want_ me to tell….”

“I do!” the Signless said frantically. “I do want you to tell people!”

“I went out and tried to find a place for us to meet, like I _always_ do, and never, never _once_ have I picked a place that got raided, or discovered, or attacked, nothing!! I’m _not_ reckless, Carmine, I’m not, I know how dangerous this is, I just thought….”

The Signless came forward and put his arms around her, and she embraced him back tightly, burying her face in his chest as roughly as she dared.

“It’s all right, Disciple,” the Signless said softly. “We’re not mad at you. Rosa’s just scared, like we all are. She doesn’t think you’re stupid or reckless, okay? She’d never think that. Rosa loves you, and you love her.”

“…Yeah. I know,” the Disciple replied, her voice muffled.

“We’ll have our meeting tonight, and then we’ll all discuss what we’re going to do next. I’m not going to let anything happen to any of you. We’ll be all right.”

\---

Across the street, hidden behind a brick chimney on a rooftop, Darkleer peered out through his darkened shades. The small window into the top floor of the inn didn’t afford much visibility, but from this distance Darkleer could clearly see even the smallest scratches in the floorboards. There was the Disciple, that peculiar greenblooded troll, embracing the mutant. Darkleer scowled. Were they matesprits? He couldn’t be sure…in the other room, Darkleer had watched the psionic troll sit beside the mutant’s recuperacoon for hours. Something in the way _they_ looked at each other seemed more flushed.

Darkleer plucked his taut bowstring restlessly. He reached back into his quiver, grazing his fingertips against the fletching of his arrows but grabbing none. His eyes narrowed; it would take a few minutes to properly adjust for wind, but this was an easy shot.

Earlier that evening, the psionic troll had left the mutant with the jadeblood. He hadn’t even known that Darkleer was following him as he dared to set foot into the blueblood district, somehow finagling himself free food. Probably through some cheap psionic trick. Darkleer’s hand had been on the arrow then too. But he had done nothing. He’d followed the psionic back to the slums, then took up his position on the roof here. He’d stayed there for the past several hours.

 _Too easy. Too quiet,_ he thought to himself as he unstrung the bow. No, shooting down a mutant rebel in his respiteblock wasn’t…grand enough. It didn’t say anything, it sent no message, nobody would remember or even agree on how it had happened.

The Grand Highblood had given Darkleer a task, and it wasn’t simply to kill this mutant.

No, the Highblood wanted a _show_. The greatest spectacle Alternia had ever seen.

If this mutant-blood was going to die, it wasn’t going to be from a quiet, dignified arrow in a back alley. Darkleer’s charge had been to force open the eyes of every troll on Alternia, and turn their unblinking faces towards the slaughter of mutation, of heresy and audacity and revolt. This signless would suffer. He would suffer enough for _all_ of them, so they’d know, they’d know and remember what they were.

Chattels. Dust and filth, easily purged, easily replaced, easily broken.


	23. Rise of Rebellion

The Disciple led them to the spot she’d picked out for that night’s meeting. Before long, the four of them had attracted a small crowd of trolls. The crowd followed them, curious, were they leaving the city, would the Signless stop to talk with anybody….

It was a tiny, unassuming little building that the Disciple had found, one that hadn’t been inhabited or so much as stepped inside for sweeps. The only entrance was the rotted wooden door, which nearly fell off its hinges when the Disciple pulled it open. All the gifts that the Signless wanted to return were brought in, and the four of them set to spreading them out across the floor.

The curious trolls began to peek in almost immediately. The Signless smiled at them with his bruised and bandaged face, waving for them to come inside and take whatever they wanted.

“This is the bread I sent you,” said an orangeblood, picking up a loaf and looking at him somewhat sadly. “Didn’t you like it?”

“Oh I did!” the Signless replied eagerly. “And honestly I had trouble trying to _not_ eat it. But there’s no need for you to give me something. My friends and I manage well enough on our own—I just thought maybe there were trolls here that could use it more than me.”

The orangeblood frowned, not quite understanding.

“Thing is,” the Signless told her, softening his voice, “if you can spare food like this for me, a stranger, then you can certainly spare it for a friend of yours, or a neighbor that really needs it.”

“I can’t just go giving handouts to people,” she replied. “It’s hard enough making enough money to keep myself from being evicted and culled.”

“Well, like I said, you gave it to me, didn’t you? You’re a generous person, because you gave me something that you worked very hard to make. Your generosity can really benefit this place.” He grinned. “Good things happen to people like you.”

Trolls filtered in and out slowly. They were all told to take whatever they wanted from the pile on the floor, and the trolls happily did so. Many of them wanted to talk to the Signless face-to-face, and when the crowd around him got too big, the people turned their attention instead to the Disciple, or the Dolorosa. The Psiioniic tried to make himself scarce, since he still wasn’t familiar with the details of the Signless’ sermons, but trolls recognized him as the psionic who had killed four subjugglators on his own. There was no escaping the attention from that.

Besides that, the Psiioniic couldn’t keep himself from smiling. The Signless just looked so happy, no matter who he was talking to or what about. It seemed he was so good at being able to speak to just about anybody. And the people were listening. They were listening, they were interested, and they believed him. They wanted what he promised. They wanted to live that way, they wanted life to be like that.

If the Signless could inspire hope in so many trolls after just one night, maybe his dreams really would become real. Maybe things on Alternia would change, just a little….

\---

Darkleer couldn’t believe what he was seeing. This mutant hadn’t even done anything. He hadn’t even told those other trolls to follow him, hadn’t even announced that he was going anywhere at all. And yet the crowd still came. The lowbloods swarmed to him, infatuated and curious. Nobody noticed Darkleer standing in the back shadows of the alley, hidden from view. For hours he stood there, motionless, incredulous, watching the trolls go in and out, in and out, everyone leaving with some trinket, some bit of food, some piece of clothing…. It took all his concentration and willpower to keep himself still. He wanted so much to go in there too, to see what was happening, what could possibly make all these rustbloods smile so wide.

Darkleer reached one hand behind his head for the quiver and took a step forward, closer to the light.

Pushing her way gently through the crowd, the greenblood came strolling out. The Disciple. She was glaring at him with bright emerald eyes. Darkleer stopped in his tracks, guilty sweat pouring down his face. The Disciple seemingly attracted no attention from the entranced crowd as she came to meet him in the shadows.

“I’m waiting for you to come in,” the Disciple huffed, placing her hands on her hips. She narrowed her eyes at him, and Darkleer slowly moved his hand away from the arrows. “You’ve been out here for hours. Why won’t you come in?”

“…It does not seem…appropriate,” was the best Darkleer could come up with. The Disciple rolled her eyes.

“Well, if you think that I haven’t had my eye on you this whole time, you’re wrong. You look like you’re supposed to be starting trouble.” The Disciple grinned slightly. “So why aren’t you?”

“This mutant of yours seems to make quite an impact.” Darkleer adjusted his glasses nonchalantly. “I’ll be sincere with you, and say I’m impressed.”

The cheeky grin dropped off the Disciple’s face. “How’d you know he was…” she started to ask, dropping her voice to a whisper.

Darkleer laughed. “Does your mutant even know he met the Grand Highblood earlier tonight?”

All the color drained from the Disciple’s face and Darkleer laughed a bit louder. “He’s a lucky one, your mutant is.”

“Stop calling him a mutant,” the Disciple insisted, a small green blush forming on her face. “He’s no different than either you or me. It’s just a color.”

“Ah, but it’s what on the inside that counts, isn’t that what you told me earlier?”

“Will you shut up?” she snapped, her eyes flaring. “You’re just ignoring me on purpose. You know, you can act like you don’t believe or care about anything the Signless is telling people, but then tell me why you’ve been out here all night and haven’t done anything. You could have killed him. You could have killed me. You could have killed all of them by now, but you didn’t.”

Darkleer paused a moment, dragging the back of his hand over his wet forehead. “I have orders.”

“I’m sure you do. And I’m sure you’re not following them, either.”

Silence hung between them. She was staring at him with an unwavering gaze, and he only barely had the willpower to keep his eyes from turning away.

“Can I ask you something?” the Disciple said after a while.

“I suppose.”

“…About five sweeps ago, during the Blood Purge…did you burn the hives of any trolls?”

Darkleer smirked. “I burned many. You’ll have to jog my memory a bit.”

“You’re awful,” the Disciple said, baring her fangs. “How can you say something like that so…so…like you don’t even care!? Did you know he was a ‘mutant’ back then? Or were you just out to kill whoever the hell you felt like! Don’t you realize—don’t you _know_ that if you just keep treating all the trolls below you on the hemospectrum like they’re not even worth your time…don’t you understand you’re just going to end up alone?”

“I’ll fill my quadrants appropriately when the time comes,” Darkleer replied, keeping his face unreadable.

“It’s not just _quadrants_ , Darkleer….” She paused a moment, and so did he, both of them momentarily startled by the usage of his name. The Disciple continued: “It’s everything. You can’t dismiss everyone you think is lower than you. You shut out so many people that way. And you can’t think of yourself as inferior to the ones above you either. Even…even a blueblood like you is worth more than his color.” She smiled a bit, a flicker of sadness in her eyes.

“Th-this…this isn’t appropriate at all,” Darkleer muttered. The Disciple grinned wider; even through the shadows she could see the royal blue blush filling up his face. Without another word, the blueblood turned and left, skulking through the back alleys with no destination.

_So the adult and the wriggler hiding in the crater that night survived…good. That’s good._

\---

The journey back to the inn was light-hearted. The Dolorosa apologized to the Disciple for getting angry earlier, as the location had been a success, as usual. To make it up to her, the Dolorosa said she would brush the Disciple’s hair and braid it for her. The Disciple’s eyes lit up and the rest of their conversation was dominated by all the Disciple’s requests.

The Signless’ injuries seemed to have been healed by his good mood. He grinned the whole way back to their respiteblock. They’d given away every last thing the trolls had left for him and, what was better, the trolls actually understood why he hadn’t taken the gifts for himself. It opened their eyes; they could share, they could help each other, and get help in return. They could help each other survive instead of hoarding what meager possessions they had for themselves.

The sun was shining dangerously bright through the windows by the time they returned, and the Psiioniic hurriedly pulled the tattered curtains of the respiteblock shut, sinking the room into pleasant darkness. Behind him, the Signless hummed gleefully as he took off his cloak.

“You’re in such a good mood,” the Psiioniic observed, raising an eyebrow in amusement. “Do the meetings always go this well?”

“Not always!” the Signless replied, running up to the Psiioniic and planting a kiss on his lips. “This was good, this was very, _very_ good! I don’t think I’ve ever _had_ that many trolls come to see me!”

The Psiioniic grinned as the Signless sat down and pulled off his shoes.

“You do a lot of good things,” the Psiioniic told him, leaning against the side of the recuperacoon. “It’s no wonder they love you. I just hope they’ll remember what you told them after we’ve left.”

“I hope so too, but that’s nothing I can really control. If they want it, they’ll find a way to make it real.”

The Signless glanced to the door, then a different grin flashed across his face. He grabbed up his cloak again and hung it over the window, doubling the room’s darkness. The Psiioniic watched him bemusedly.

“You know,” the Signless said, hooking his fingers in the waistline of the Psiioniic’s pants and pulling him close, “we haven’t shared a recuperacoon since we were little.”

“You’re right,” the Psiioniic replied, their faces almost touching, his chest seizing up with excitement and a bit of exhilarating fear. “We haven’t. There’s a lot of things we haven’t done since we were little. A lot of things that we haven’t…done at all.”

Carmine giggled, with all the giddiness of a wriggler. He took a breath and calmed himself, but there was no way that huge smile was ever going to leave his face. “We don’t have to do it all today, though,” Carmine said, leaning up and kissing the Psiioniic again. “We’ve got time.”

“Time, maybe, but a respiteblock to ourselves, not so much.” The Psiioniic was painfully aware of how deeply his face was flushed.

Carmine frowned. “I didn’t think of that. …Welp, no time to waste then.” With an impossibly swift motion, and nearly no show of effort whatsoever, Carmine lifted the Psiioniic up by the waist and tipped him backwards into the recuperacoon, splashing sopor slime everywhere.

“Aah—Carmine—!”

Carmine was laughing and inside the recuperacoon before the Psiioniic could resurface.

“You shouldn’t be straining yourself like that!” the Psiioniic insisted, wiping slime from his face.

“Oh please.” Carmine rolled his eyes and snuggled in close. “You don’t _weigh_ anything.”

“Also you just ruined all my clothes.”

“Guess there’s only one thing to do about that, then.” Carmine reached for the Psiioniic’s belt buckle, grinning wide and saying, “You won’t be needing these for the next hour or so….”

The Psiioniic put his hands on top of Carmine’s head and pushed him underneath the sopor slime. When he forced his way back up, the Psiioniic’s hands were glowing red and blue again, the soft light illuminating their faces in the dark.

“I _said_ ,” the Psiioniic whispered, smiling, “not to strain yourself.” He crept closer to Carmine in the neon green liquid and hovered his hands just above Carmine’s chest, willing relaxation and warmth into all of his sore muscles. Carmine couldn’t tear his eyes away from the Psiioniic, his whole face filling up with a deep red blush.

“So relax,” the Psiioniic said, moving his right hand down under the slime, towards Carmine’s waist. He pulled the shirt free from where it was tucked into his pants, eased his hand up under the shirt and began to pull it off.

Almost entranced, Carmine lifted his arms up for the Psiioniic to pull the shirt free. When it was off, and his eyes no longer obscured by the cloth, the Psiioniic was grinning widely. His fangs were sticking out over his bottom lip as he attempted to stifle his giggle.

“You know, I’ve never…never seen you…you know, completely….” The Psiioniic drifted off incoherently, averting his gaze.

Carmine smiled back. “Would you like to?”

“Yeth,” the Psiioniic replied instantly, his smile widening. “I mean…if you…don’t…mind….”

“I don’t mind.” Carmine sat up a bit, leaning in until their foreheads were touching. “I’ll let you see everything. All of me. But in return…you have to do the same for me.”

The Psiioniic’s smile faded. His fangs remained poking out over his lip.

“I’m not saying you have to do it now,” Carmine said, running his fingers through his matesprit’s hair. “But you know I’m not going to care about what it looks like.”

“But it’s…not just my chetht, it’s…it’th all over.”

“I don’t care.” He smiled, feeling nothing but warm affection. “But the scars aren’t your fault. They’re not you. I mean, come on…look at these stubby horns of mine. I used to think, how was I ever going to impress you with these?”

The Psiioniic let himself grin a bit. “I don’t care about how small your horns are. I like them that way. And it was never that stuff about you that imprethed me….”

“Aww.” Carmine pouted theatrically. “I always fancied myself a _little_ attractive….”

“That’s—oh god, that came out all wrong,” the Psiioniic laughed. “And you are attractive. I think so, anyway.”

“Really?” Carmine raised an eyebrow. “Indulge me.” He moved even closer, until he was straddling the Psiioniic in the recuperacoon, staring down at him. “What do you like?”

“…These.” The Psiioniic lightly put his hands on Carmine’s hips, and moved them down, down over his thighs, rubbing them softly.

It had been a sort of slow realization. Seeing Carmine with an adult body had been odd at first, but in an exciting way. There was no doubt that it was his Carmine, the same little anonymous wriggler, just…different. Mature…fully developed into the troll he was supposed to be. He’d become leaner, but stronger, with slender, defined legs from all the sweeps of traveling on foot. The Psiioniic had caught himself staring at them more than once.

“Is that so?” Carmine said, his fangs glinting playfully as he grinned. “Well, if you come out, you can look at them all you want.” He put his hands on either side of the recuperacoon and lifted himself out of the sopor slime. The Psiioniic followed him eagerly, and in that moment the whole world felt perfect.

\---

The word of the Signless spread slowly, but steadily. The encounter with the subjugglators had become almost mythic in its retelling, and the Signless’ peculiar generosity was repeated everywhere he went. He still refused to make himself and the others any more public than they needed to be, but it seemed as if with each place they visited, recognition was unavoidable. It soon reached the point where they would not even stop for a night in town, as their presence could not be hidden from the highbloods for long.

They were turned away entirely from some areas. Some lowbloods wouldn’t risk punishment by associating with the Signless and his group, having already heard tales of what happened to those who harbored rebels. The Signless never forced himself on them. He and the others always left if the trolls denied them entry.

After about a sweep or so things began to change. The signless, mutant rebel, once only rumored to exist, was real, and dangerous no matter who you asked. His words were the most beautiful heresy, sweet, liberating treason. Trolls came from towns over to hear him speak. The Signless would always remember the look of shock and the joyful tears that spilled from the Dolorosa’s eyes the first time another jadeblood came to a sermon. It was a troll that she had known from her days down in the caverns, another troll who had thrown off the burden handed so blindly to her.

Psionics came as well. They left their masters, left their slavery, and dedicated themselves to protecting lowbloods that had no other means of defense. When the bluebloods came to cull and the highbloods grew tired of tolerance, the psionics were there to push back. They kept many of the Signless’ followers from being weeded out. Many villages that would have been burned or slaughtered still stood because of them.

The Disciple made small copies of her book. She never had the time nor means to reproduce it in its entirety, so she wrote little booklets, each containing one sermon, and gave them to trolls who wanted them. The Signless still remembered how miserably she’d cried when a troll had been publicly executed for being caught with one.

The Signless began to become more aware of seatrolls. He tried to steer the group from coastal areas now, and always seemed tense when he saw a seatroll around. The one night that a seatroll had actually come to hear him speak—he would have once thought it an impossibility—the Signless wasn’t so much happy as he was anxious. He had forced the Psiioniic not to come that night, just as a precaution. The Psiioniic hadn’t seen the use of it, but after a heated discussion he had agreed to make himself scarce.

Regardless of the Signless’ occasional apprehension, things were changing, and it showed no sign of stopping. The Signless, Dolorosa, Disciple, and Psiioniic were all criminals and traitors according to the Grand Highblood and Condesce both. If they were ever caught, there would be no questioning, there would be no trial.

Only swift murder, and the restoration of order.

\---

Executor Darkleer stumbled into the half-destroyed tavern. The cacophony from tonight was finally dying down. He reached over the counter of the deserted bar, carefully rooting around for a bottle, something, anything that felt like it had some damn liquid in it. He came up with one, finally, and ripped out the cork effortlessly. He began to pour the stuff into his mouth heedlessly, sighing heavily as the buzz flowed through his veins.

He had no arrows left. He’d told his ruffiannihilators to retrieve the ones they found, but in all likelihood they were all broken or otherwise rendered useless. They were out there now, putting out fires and starting new ones, rounding up the rioters who had escaped or tried to hide. Digging a mass grave for all the bodies, just so the streets would be clean for the Grand Highblood tomorrow. There wasn’t enough oil left to start a pyre. They had to hide the trash somehow.

He sat down on one of the intact barstools, ashamed at the alcohol dripping down his chin but there was nobody around to see. Fuck, there had just been so many. So many greenbloods, limebloods, yellowbloods, even a jadeblood or two had ended up in the pile. The shades of red were blurring together, he could never remember what shade it was _supposed_ to be. Every day he hoped, he prayed that this time, this time he’d pierced the right heart, he’d sliced the right neck, but color after color after color of non-mutated blood had spilled out and stained his hands.

Darkleer hadn’t seen that greenblood, the Disciple, in two sweeps. Or more accurately, he hadn’t talked to her since then. He’d seen her from a distance, had seen her running from him, or from other highbloods, had seen her walking through the streets with that mutant. He didn’t know if she’d noticed him any of those times. Every time olive green joined the putrid rainbow on his palms, he’d know that one day it’d be hers.

The Grand Highblood was restless. He killed indiscriminately to expend his rage. The subjugglator hall had received several new coats of paint, and the rotting heads and skulls adorning its rooftop had increased in horrifying numbers. Public executions were a nightly occurrence, sometimes taking place three or four times a day, the bodies left for the black wingbeasts arriving hungry for their feast. They were only cut down to make room for more condemned criminals. Darkleer had lost many of his arrows to them as well.

There was a heavy pounding and the sound of wood splintering on the floor. Darkleer ignored it, bringing the dusty glass up to his lips again and drinking the rest of the bottle in a single mouthful. He heard accented cursing and the stomping of heavy boots.

“Fuckin’ landdwellers,” came a mumble through gritted fangs. “If I could raise a tidal wave big enough to wipe the whole lot o’ you out, turn all your fuckin’ dirt to mud and shit to suck you down in it….”

Somebody plopped down heavily in a barstool across from him. Darkleer raised his eyes, dull royal blue meeting flaming violet. Darkleer grinned humorlessly at the familiar color and tossed the empty bottle to the floor. It exploded into a flurry of glass dust.

“Orphaner Dualscar,” Darkleer slurred. “What a displeasure to see you.”


	24. Descent

Dualscar grinned at him somberly in the low light. Outside, trolls shouted orders at each other, an occasional dying scream cutting through the noise. A small explosion went off, somewhere.

“I never took you for a drunk,” Dualscar said, leaning one elbow on the bar. “But then again, if _I_ were responsible for that fuckin’ mess outside—” he gestured a thumb towards the door “—I’d be sucking ‘em down too.”

“Orphaner, you are too predictable,” Darkleer replied, reaching for another bottle. He grabbed two and slid one down the wooden counter to Dualscar. The seatroll popped it open and tilted the bottle into his mouth, thirstily guzzling drink. “Blame the landdwellers. Blame the bluebloods. Just what have you been doing all this time? Stumbling around blindly, one step behind _me_ , and pretending like you couldn’t be bothered to do what I’ve done.” He smirked. “You’ll never catch Her Imperious Condescension’s eye that way.”

Dualscar spat alcohol directly into Darkleer’s face. The blueblood wiped it off expressionlessly. “Fuck you, blueblood,” Dualscar growled.

“Such language for pseudo-royalty.”

“No seriously, _fuck_ you, Darkleer. If it wasn’t for you I’d be the Condesce’s matesprit by now, probably Emperor, and I’d have genocided the fuck out of _all o’ you_.”

Darkleer chuckled, unfazed. “I’d forgotten how funny your delusions were to listen to. So I stamped out one rebellion. That was sweeps ago, and the Condesce doesn’t even remember me anymore. I’ve all but fallen out of the Grand Highblood’s favor. What have you done with yourself in all this time? Just wallowed in self-pity over a single moment of stolen glory. If you wanted to make something of yourself, you could have done it by now. The fact that you haven’t makes you even more pathetic. You really are the biggest joke of a seatroll, Orphaner.”

Dualscar rubbed his temples with two calloused, clawed fingers. “It’s this fucking mutant rebel. This…” he hissed, “ _Signless_.” He spat on the floor, as if to get the taste of the name out of his mouth. “Stole my fucking Psiioniic. Spread all this _shit_ , all these lies, doing everything he can to make life difficult for us highbloods.”

“The lowbloods have greater numbers than us. They always have.” Darkleer shrugged. “You can’t stop an idea.”

“The hell we can’t. What are rustbloods? Not decent trolls, not real trolls, and shit, you said it yourself, there’s tons of the fuckers. Killing them is like stepping on insects.” Dualscar was silent a moment, then drew in a huge breath of air and exhaled.

“We’re _both_ fucking failures,” he mumbled. Darkleer laughed raucously.

“That’s the truest thing you’ve said all night, seatroll,” the blueblood replied, raising his bottle and taking another drink.

“…What we need to do,” Dualscar said, staring down at the dusty bar contemplatively, “is put aside a few differences. Come to an agreement. Make a deal.”

“Yeah, I get you, you rambling drunk. What do you want?”

“I hope you appreciate this, because I had to swallow a hell of a lot of my pride to come ask you this. We need to go after this Signless together. We keep fucking it up on our own.”

“Goodness, Orphaner. You really must be desperate.”

“You want this as much as I do, so shut the fuck up. You’ve got the ability to track them down and I’ve got the manpower to rout the sons of bitches.” Dualscar leaned closer to Darkleer, trying to catch his eye but eliciting no reaction. “We’ll both take the credit for it.”

Darkleer snickered lowly, the alcohol spreading through his veins and making him giddy. “Tell you what,” he said, spinning languidly around to face the seatroll. “You can help me, and you can have _all_ the glory.” He shrugged. “I don’t care about that. You want your quadrant filled by the Condesce? Well, here’s to you, seatroll. Good luck with that. I just want this travesty to be _over_.”

Dualscar grinned, the tips of each of his fangs glinting in the dark. “So we’re agreed then?”

Darkleer raised his bottle and Dualscar did the same. They clinked them together, the glassy rattling echoing in the dim space. “That we are,” Darkleer replied. “And aren’t you lucky, because I just happened upon a lead tonight….”

\---

The Signless winced, his face contorted as though he might cry. “They look _awful_!” he exclaimed.

“They do not, love,” the Dolorosa replied patiently, watching over his shoulder. The Signless huffed and flung the gloves down in his lap. He still had the same pout as when he was a wriggler.

“But this is my _third try_ …” he mumbled. “Rosa, why can’t I do _anything_?”

“Oh, stop,” she said, smiling. She scooped the gloves out of his lap and inspected them. “The stitching is a bit sloppy, to be sure, and they’re not the same size. But they’re not awful. Nothing made with love can be called awful.” She kissed his forehead and handed them back to him.

“But he’s supposed to be able to use them.” The Signless frowned at his sloppy creations. “They’re not going to fit.”

“Do you want to try a fourth time?”

“No, I can’t, I can’t, I don’t have any more time.” The Signless got to his feet, breathing in slowly and exhaling. He put the gloves inside his pocket carefully. He walked towards the door, stared at it, then walked back again, fidgeting with the edge of his cloak. The Dolorosa stifled a giggle.

“You speak in front of hundreds of trolls almost every night, and yet I’m still surprised by what can make you nervous,” she said through her smile.

“Where _are_ they?” the Signless asked, going to the window and pulling back the curtain warily. “I told the Disciple to only take him out for an hour. They’re probably spending all our money at a bookshop again.” He turned around and glared at his lusus. “You didn’t give them any money, did you?”

“No, Carmine.”

“Then what’s taking so long!?”

“Come sit down,” she said, gesturing towards the table. “I’ll get you some tea.” She went to the quietly steaming teapot in the corner, the tealeaves already infused inside.

As far as hideouts went, this one was certainly among the Dolorosa’s favorite. They were in the attic of a tealblood seamstress’s hive, and she had done more than enough to keep them hidden. She provided them all with food, a safe way in and out, and—to the Dolorosa’s great joy—spare pieces of fabric and thread. The jadeblood had been beside herself with joy, busywith fixing the others’ torn clothes and making new garments nearly every night. Everybody had gotten something new: the Signless had a new shirt that didn’t hang so loose around his torso, the way he hated. The Psiioniic had gotten a red-and-blue scarf, and the Disciple had a fluffy skirt made entirely of fur and feathers from all her favorite musclebeasts and wingbeasts.

In fact, the Dolorosa simply had so much extra fabric to work with, it had been her idea in the beginning for the Signless to try making something.

The Dolorosa had always wanted to teach her wriggler how to sew since he was little, but the thought of putting a needle in that excitable hand unnerved her more than it excited her. And then, being so suddenly thrust out into the world, there had never been the opportunity. But now, with a bit of free time and more than enough fabric for him to practice with and safely ruin, the long overdue lessons had become a nightly occurrence.

The bell by the door jingled, signaling that someone was coming up the hidden stairs. The Signless excitedly peeked through the peephole and saw the distorted figures of the Disciple and Psiioniic coming up the spiral staircase. Without even waiting for them to knock, he threw the door open.

“There you are!” he exclaimed. “Where were you?”

“Sorry,” the Disciple said, stifled laughter evident in her voice. “I found a vendor that sold the _cutest_ tiny skull ornaments for my hair…and then I couldn’t get the Psiioniic to leave the bookshop—”

“Of course,” the Signless murmured, but he went unheard.

“—he kept saying he was almost done but he kept going back for another every time I tried to pull him out.”

“Sorry, Car,” the Psiioniic said, grinning shyly, and the Signless instantly forgot his annoyance. The Psiioniic’s smile was more carefree these days, and even when things were at their most tough, the hardened look in his eyes was hardly ever there anymore. He laughed more easily. He’d developed interests, hobbies, likes, and dislikes. And in all that time, he had never stopped being the same Psiioniic. He had changed, but not into a different person.

“Don’t worry about it,” the Signless replied. “So, uh…are you ready to go?”

“Yeah!” He flashed a huge smile. “So my present’s done?”

“Uh….” The image of the poorly made gloves flashed into the Signless’s mind. “We’ll call it that.”

“All right, let’s go then.”

\---

The date may have been Carmine’s idea, yet he hadn’t had anything planned. It took them almost twenty minutes to decide where to eat, and then only after the Psiioniic convinced Carmine to eat something at all. The meal had been modest and not entirely filling, but when it was over Carmine looked as though he wanted to be sick.

“Nervous about tonight?” the Psiioniic asked, grasping his hand tightly as they walked down to the street corner.

“No, just…no, I’m not nervous about that. That’ll be fine,” he replied, his thoughts elsewhere.

The Psiioniic frowned. Carmine might not be worried, but the Psiioniic certainly was. Tonight was shaping up to be their biggest gathering yet. There was an old warehouse down by the river of this town; it might not have been the most inconspicuous of places but it was the only building the Disciple could find that would hold all the trolls safely. They expected almost every lowblood in the area to come, and perhaps even a few bluebloods or tealbloods. The Psiioniic was going to be outside, watching for any potential attacks or assault. There would be other psionics with him, more than usual, so they all would be well-protected. Still…the Psiioniic felt a bit of unease.

“If you say so,” the Psiioniic said, shrugging his shoulders and grabbing Carmine’s hand tighter. They turned the corner and went down the next street.

“The Disciple and I saw this really good-looking bakery down here earlier,” the Psiioniic explained. “Let’s go buy something. Then we’ll go up to that big hill and we’ll have our dessert there.”

At the promise of sweets, Carmine perked up. “Sounds good,” he said.

Once they arrived, it took Carmine fifteen minutes to decide on what he wanted. He ended up with a cake big enough for four people—the most he could get for what money they had left—while the Psiioniic settled for some cinnamon cookies. Carmine pulled the Psiioniic eagerly along as they left the shop, heading for the outskirts of town.

Just across the river, where the developed area of the town ended, there was a wide expanse of grass before the landscape faded into the usual, deserted Alternian wilderness. The ground sloped upward from the river banks, and a small hill provided a nice overlook of the town, unimpressive though it was. Carmine and the Psiioniic sat themselves down there and began eating their pastries underneath the twin Alternian moons.

“We never get to do anything like this anymore,” the Psiioniic said, biting into his first cookie. “I’m glad we got a little bit of downtime here.”

“Yeah,” Carmine replied, his mouth already full of cake. “Sorry I’ve been ignoring you a little bit lately.”

The Psiioniic waved his hand. “You’re not ignoring me. We’re all busy, because the movement has gotten so much bigger….”

“Yeah, but I should still make time for you guys.” He scooted closer to the Psiioniic and shoved more cake in his mouth. “I’m starting to wonder if things will ever calm down enough for us to do this sort of thing every day….”

“Don’t worry so much about it. You’re doing a good thing. Things will change. Things will be better.”

Carmine nodded resolutely. Things _would_ change, he would make sure of it.

They ate the rest of their sweets in contented silence. It was a quiet, chilly night, but they drew warmth from each other’s body heat. For a while they sat there, Carmine resting his head on the Psiioniic’s shoulder, their fingers loosely intertwined. With his free hand, Carmine nervously patted at his pocket, within which he held the Psiioniic’s gift. He took in a breath, working up the courage to present them.

“All right, so,” he announced suddenly, sitting up straight. “I’ve got something for you.”

The Psiioniic turned towards him and opened his red and blue eyes eagerly.

Carmine reached for the gloves, then paused. “Uh…close your eyes, I guess.”

“All right.” 

Carmine pulled out the gloves and stared at them, disheartened. For an instant he thought of pretending like he’d lost them so he could try one more time, but the Psiioniic was starting to fidget.

“Well?” he asked.

“Hold out your hands.” The Psiioniic obeyed, and Carmine set the gloves in his upturned palms. The Psiioniic slowly opened his eyes, and a huge, gleeful smile spread across his face when he saw what he was holding.

“What, did you… _make_ these?” He held them up for inspection, running his thumbs over the fabric.

“I did,” Carmine mumbled. “Um, they’re not really…very good, but I can try again. If they don’t fit. I just thought…it’s been kinda cold lately, and you have really cold hands so maybe you’d like them.”

“Oh, there’s something on the back too!” the Psiioniic exclaimed, turning each glove over. The right-hand glove had a sloppy rendition of his sign, almost too warped to distinguish. It was more of a lopsided rectangle than anything else, but it made him smile nonetheless.

The other glove had a yellow X stitched over the back. The Psiioniic held it up, grinning so wide his face hurt, and asked sheepishly, “This is…for our scar, isn’t it?”

Carmine nodded. “Yeah. It goes over this hand—” he grabbed the Psiioniic’s left hand and took the glove, sliding it on carefully “—so you can still see it, even though the real one’s covered up.”

“…I really like it,” the Psiioniic said, his voice small and his face flushed. “And it’s warm.”

“Does it fit okay?”

“Yeah, it does! This other one, though, um…not so much.”

“Ugh, _really_?” Carmine sighed, exasperated. He took the Psiioniic’s other hand and tried to fit the glove on, but it stopped short just above his wrist. “You need to stop having such long fingers.”

“Well, if you don’t mind me saying so, I think I like the other one better.”

“You still need a pair,” Carmine told him. “I’ll fix this one, I promise. And I’ll get it to you…I don’t know, next week. At the latest. I promise.” He stuffed the defective glove back into his pocket.

“Okay.” The Psiioniic leaned over and gave him a kiss. “Thanks, Carmine. Best half-present I’ve ever gotten.”

“Yeah, I know.” Carmine got to his feet and helped the Psiioniic up. “We should get going. I hate being late to my own sermons.”

\---

“I don’t know how in the hell you found out about this,” Dualscar said, fiddling with the settings on his harpoon gun. “This is the _last_ place I’d have checked.”

“I have more contacts than you, Orphaner,” Darkleer replied, his eyes scanning the street from their position on the rooftop. “And more finesse, to boot.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The seatroll shouldered the gun and went to join Darkleer at the roof’s edge. The warehouse was filling up quickly, though an untrained eye would not have been able to tell. Trolls had been wandering over to the area in small waves, one or two at a time, for the past several hours. Heavily cloaked psionics, some brazenly masquerading as bluebloods, patrolled the surrounding area as nonchalantly as possible. No, there really didn’t look like anything was happening here.

If Darkleer had expended all his resources and efforts and abilities, he could have had the Signless dead long before now. If he’d tried his absolute hardest, if he’d treated this task with the importance that the Grand Highblood truly wanted, it would have all been over. Darkleer knew that he’d been dancing around it. He knew that he hadn’t done the best job he could have. He’d followed the Signless and his group of rebels to town after town after town. Their draw and appeal to the lowbloods was truly a thing to behold.

Darkleer would never admit what was holding him back. What had stayed his hand too many times to count. He’d never admit what it was that he really wanted.

“Your seatrolls are in position, yes?” Darkleer asked, stringing his longbow as the last of the trolls disappeared into the building. Even he hadn’t seen the Signless actually enter. Or perhaps he had simply ignored it….

“Of course.” Dualscar grinned and laughed breathily in the dark. “Stupid landdwellers probably think seatrolls can’t swim in freshwater. That’ll be their fuckin’ downfall, holding their treasonous meeting right by a river.”

Darkleer chuckled softly. “A sad oversight,” he agreed.

He scanned the streets once more. They were completely empty. Most of the trolls in this neighborhood had gone down to listen to the Signless speak. Those that hadn’t, the ones that had stayed behind for whatever reasons they had, Darkleer had commanded his ruffiannihilators to kill. Stealth wasn’t exactly their talent, but the Grand Highblood had generously allowed Darkleer a handful of laughssassins to assist in this endeavor. If everything had gone according to plan, there wasn’t a single hive in the district that hadn’t been cleaned out. When the traitors scattered and tried to barricade themselves back in their homes, they wouldn’t come back to an empty hive. There were no safe places left here.

 _It’ll be over soon,_ Darkleer told himself, reaching back into his quiver and nervously fidgeting with one of his arrows. _It’ll be over. All of this._

“Well?” Dualscar asked, impatience creeping into his voice. “Are we all set here? Can we give the signal?”

 _Once we do, it’s not going to stop,_ Darkleer thought. His heart was racing faster. Sweat beaded along the top of his forehead, and he took in a long, deep breath. _Once this rock starts rolling, it’s falling all the way down. There won’t be any stopping it._

Darkleer took an arrow and notched it to his bowstring. He pulled it back, stretching the longbow as far as it could go. He took aim at the psionic patrolling closest to the river’s edge, and let it loose. The sound of the arrow sinking deep into her chest resounded with a sickening _thump_ , and she fell, toppling unceremoniously into the river. Seconds after the splash’s echo died, the surface of the water began to ripple as though the tides were boiling.

Countless seatrolls burst from the water, laughing and shrieking obscene war cries. The other psionic trolls that came running tried futilely to repel them, and though a few unfortunate seatrolls fell back dead into the water, there simply weren’t enough lowbloods to make a difference. They tried in vain to resist, but the gap between the seatrolls and the warehouse was closing quickly.

Darkleer and Dualscar leapt from the roof, ready to cut down any of the lowblood traitors that dared try to run.

~~~

_”If anything happens, I want you all to run. Don’t go together. Stay separated. Promise me.”_

_“You know that we won’t.”_

_“Disciple, please. You know it’s me that they want. Once they have me they’re not going to care about any of you. But if they get their hands on any of you…they’re just going to hurt you. In order to find me. So please. All of you, promise me right now.”_

_“…Carmine, we’re all traitors. We all know that. You can’t suffer for all of us.”_

_“I know, Rosa. But this could happen at any time. So you all need to promise me. If they ever find us…all of you, just run.”_

~~~

It blurred so quickly. The Psiioniic had heard the arrow zipping through the air, had seen the other troll die, had seen the seatrolls appear out of the river, all before he realized what was happening. The other psionics came running from the other side of the building when they heard the commotion. Immediately, psionic blasts were lighting up the night, shooting down seatrolls and sending them toppling back into the water. Once he’d gathered his thoughts enough to realize that they were being attacked, the Psiioniic reached out, into the minds of the seatrolls that tried to dodge the optic blasts, and held them there, forced them to fry in the raw energy. He ignored their shrill shrieks. It didn’t matter what he had to do, as long as this place was safe.

The psionic energies grew stronger and more numerous. The Psiioniic knew why and cringed inwardly. Nervously he reached for the small package of mind honey in his pocket. He’d always been against the idea of handing the stuff out to the other psionics, but his every effort had been shot down. Mind honey was too unpredictable, it was addictive, and inexperienced psionics lost all awareness when they were using it. There was no way to keep psionics on mind honey from destroying everything around them indiscriminately. To that end, perhaps, was the reason why every psionic was only given the tiniest drop, wrapped up in a bit of wax paper for easy consumption. Still, a small amount was really all it took.

Almost impossibly, it looked like the psionics were winning, or at least holding the seatrolls back. None of the seatrolls had made it to the door of the warehouse, or even so much as touched it. However, there were more of them than there were psionics; it wouldn’t be long until their sheer numbers overwhelmed. Whoever had sent them had sent far more than were necessary to overtake the psionic trolls.

The seatrolls were advancing slowly. None of them as of yet had reached the entrance, but they were getting there. It was just a matter of time. They didn’t care how many of their comrades fell from the front lines as long as there were three or four more seatrolls to take the place of the dead.

The Psiioniic grit his teeth, still holding the packet of mind honey. He was the highest level psionic among them, that was a well-known fact. If he were to consume the mind honey, it might be enough to wipe out a huge portion of these seatrolls. It might even scare them enough to retreat for the time being. But the Psiioniic had to make his decision quickly. Already about half the psionic trolls were dead, and the seatrolls showed no signs of stopping.

A flash of something unfamiliar caught his eye. He looked up, to the roof of the warehouse. Had he just seen somebody up there? Had the seatrolls made it this far already?

He didn’t have time to think about it. By now it was only him and about ten other psionic trolls left alive. All the seatrolls were converging on them at their position by the front door. All the others had already eaten and used up all their mind honey. The Psiioniic was the only real offense they had left. He cursed inwardly, steeled himself, and opened his mouth for the mind honey—

—a blinding flash of green light. The Psiioniic blinked, momentarily hearing nothing, and turned his head. Every single one of the psionic trolls to his right were dead. The seatrolls hadn’t come any closer. There weren’t even any in _range_ to kill that many at once….

The flash came again, and the Psiioniic looked to his left. The remainder of the psionic trolls was dead. Even the seatrolls were stunned, and momentarily paused at this sudden change.

Another flash of bright, brilliant green. The Psiioniic winced, averting his eyes, and slowly blinked them open.

An adult troll he’d never seen before stood before him, wearing a dress of blazing neon green. Her eyes flashed blue and purple, her face impassive as she gazed down at the carnage she’d created. In each hand she carried the most dazzling white wands, both crackling with otherworldly energy. She raised one, pointing it directly at the Psiioniic.

He had no time to react, barely had time to even wonder where she had come from. He felt an immense slam to the chest, knocking the breath out of him, and he fell down to the ground. The package of mind honey went skittering across the dirt, plopping softly into the river. By the time the Psiioniic caught his breath, the seatrolls were charging again. The troll dressed in green was gone.

His body worked automatically, his brain taking too long to act. The Psiioniic scrambled to his feet and ran into the warehouse, into where hundreds of trolls were gathered, all of them, _all_ of them about to be slaughtered.

He didn’t remember exactly what he shouted out. _Seatrolls,_ perhaps. _Surrounded,_ surely.

_Run, Carmine. Please run._

The seatrolls were inside. There were even bluebloods, how had they gotten in…? Already the floor and walls were being painted with smears of red, orange, yellow, lime, green, teal…the Psiioniic scanned the crowd for any sign of the Disciple, the Dolorosa….

The Disciple grabbed her book and was gone. She disappeared entirely, and the Psiioniic could only hope that nobody had seen her.

A blueblood was on top of the Dolorosa, shackling her hands, completely unfazed by her frantic flailing and desperate screams for her wriggler.

Carmine was trying to herd the smaller trolls to safety, trying to get the wrigglers out, but they were all swept away from him and dashed against the floor. No fewer than six seatrolls were instantly on him, and the Psiioniic felt his heart stop. He could see candy red blood splatter from where he stood, several yards away, as the seatrolls laughed and chained him and beat him, striking his head over and over and over….

_Stop you’re going to kill him you’re KILLING him stop stop stop STOP STOP!!_

The Psiioniic turned and ran out an unguarded door. There was nothing he could do. He’d promised, hadn’t he? Carmine would want it, he’d want the Psiioniic to run…he had to find the Disciple, if he could find the Disciple they could figure out a way to save Carmine and the Dolorosa, he had to catch up with her, together they could do it, they could figure _something_ out….

The Psiioniic shot himself into the air immediately, leaving trails of red and blue energy as he leapt to the nearest rooftop and began to run. He searched the streets for any sign of the greenblood huntress but all he saw was more carnage. There were so many highbloods here, so many bluebloods and still innumerable amounts of seatrolls, killing and killing and killing and there was nowhere for anyone to go. Hives were burning and he could hear the cackles of laughssassins, not quite like those of subjugglators but still eerie enough to send ice into his blood….

 _Disciple where did you go, where are you where ARE you? Don’t leave me, please, you have to help me…._ He fought back the lump in his throat and continued to run along the rooftops, willing himself not to panic, fighting back a complete breakdown….

As he flared his energy to make the jump over to the next building, a flash of bright, blue light came from his left, blinding him and grazing his shoulder. He cried out and fell, his head striking the ground hard and knocking him out for half a second.

When he awoke, he wasted no time in jumping up to his feet and starting to run again. Something struck him on the back of the head and he fell again. This time it was not so easy to get up.

He heard a laugh, and then he was roughly kicked over onto his back, staring up at the night sky. Somebody had their foot on his chest, pushing him down to the ground just barely to the point where he could still breathe. A seatroll, an old familiar seatroll with two violet scars across his face, leaned over and grinned at him.

“Hello, grub.”


	25. Failure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter contains non-con and potentially triggering material.**

The Psiioniic’s blood burned like molten, red-hot metal. Raw, liquid panic shot through his brain and into his heart, clutching tightly until it was sure to burst. He stopped breathing as Dualscar leaned down closer to him, the seatroll’s weight pressing against his smaller frame. He only took in another gasp of breath when he felt his lungs screaming for release, screaming for air. He opened his mouth, slowly, and inhaled, and when he released the breath the sound was like a wriggler’s whimper.

“I have simply been looking _everywhere_ for you, grub,” Dualscar said softly, his face contorted in a grotesque mockery of concern. “It’s a frightening world out here. But you know I’ll always come for you.”

Dualscar reached down to touch his face and the Psiioniic snapped back to his senses. He felt a charge of psionic power build up behind his eyes, ready to release it and finally kill him, finally erase the evil bastard from existence like he deserved a hundred, hundred times….

Dualscar slapped one hand over the Psiioniic’s eyes and laughed at his frustrated scream. “I brought you a snack,” he said conversationally. “It’s not what you’re used to, but since you’ve grown I figure your tastes might have changed.”

The seatroll pushed his fingers into the yellowblood’s mouth, and they were covered in some gelatinous, tasteless substance that numbed the Psiioniic’s tongue from a single touch. He tried to bite down, tried to grab Dualscar’s hand and pull it away, but it was too late. Whatever he had fed him was already working. The Psiioniic felt his entire brain go numb, numb like his tongue, and his eyes were dry. He tried to conjure up any energy, any psionics at all, but it was all dead.

That was something he had never felt. It was worse, so much worse, than seeing Dualscar again. The loss of his power—or at the least, the temporary loss—was like the loss of limbs. He was helpless. The Psiioniic had nothing. He’d never had any physical strength; he’d never _needed_ it. He didn’t know how to fight any other way. He didn’t know how to do _anything_ any other way.

And he was like that, stripped as he had ever been, in a back alley with Dualscar holding him down.

No, the Psiioniic had never truly known fear before.

“You like that?” Dualscar asked, his eyes wide and hungry. “Bit of a new development; think of it as anti-mind honey. Somewhere along the way they figured out that maybe you pissbloods ought ‘a have an ‘off’ switch.”

The Psiioniic grabbed and pushed futilely against Dualscar’s ankle, trying to get him to move, but nothing happened, nothing whatsoever. His own feet were scrabbling against the dirt, because now he saw other shadows approaching, other laughing, grinning seatrolls, and he couldn’t fight them, he couldn’t do anything at all….

“You’re bein’ awful quiet,” Dualscar said. “Does that mean you want to start begging for mercy later instead of now?” He laughed. “Either way’s fine with me.” He looked up at one of his seatrolls and held out his hand. “Here, hand me that.”

Dualscar kicked the Psiioniic back over onto his stomach and immediately knelt down to straddle him. The Psiioniic was too paralyzed to even think about trying to struggle, but Dualscar had already locked chains around his wrists. The seatroll leaned in close to his face, pressed painfully against the sharp rocks and dirt, and it still felt the same, Dualscar still felt and smelled exactly the same.

“I can get you out of this, you know,” Dualscar whispered, so, so softly. “Just tell me you’re sorry, and I’ll bring you back home with me. We’ll pretend none of it happened, grub.” He rubbed his rough seatroll hands through the Psiioniic’s hair, stroking slowly. “Just say so, and I’ll take you home. I promise.”

The Psiioniic could guess what awaited him on Dualscar’s ship. More of the same that he’d lived with for five agonizing sweeps. Only this time, there’d be no question as to what had happened to Carmine. Carmine would be dead. And the Psiioniic and Dualscar would both know it. There’d be nowhere to run to this time. That prison was a familiar one.

But if he didn’t go with Dualscar…who could say what would await him there? Would they kill the Psiioniic too, for associating so long with the Signless? For helping spread his visions? Would they do something worse? The Psiioniic had no idea. It could be anything. There was no telling what horrors _that_ prison held.

“Well, grub?” Dualscar asked, and his tongue slithered out to lightly lick the Psiioniic’s neck.

“…No,” the Psiioniic said, softly at first. And then, something in him snapped.

“No, no, no! _No!!_ ” he screamed, thrashing hopelessly with his skinny body against Dualscar’s solid seatroll muscle. The seatrolls grabbed him up from the ground, and still he kept shouting, “ _No! NO!!_ ”

He screamed and screamed, fighting as hard as he could as they dragged him through the streets, splattered with blood and bodies and fire and hundreds of captured trolls, all of them on their way to die, whether it was tonight or tomorrow or after sweeps and sweeps of slow, degrading torture. He didn’t remember when the tears had started, only that they blinded him with reflected firelight, and the colors of the night blurred and mixed and none of the colors, none of them were candy red.

“ _No, NO!!!_ ” the Psiioniic cried, standing among the most tragic of wreckages, the complete obliteration of hope, the death of dreams.

~~~

_”Rosa!” The little troll was crying messily, wiping tears and mucus all over his newly cleaned sleeves. “R-Rosa!” he shouted, hiccupping in panic._

_Without fail, his lusus was there, sitting on the front porch, her embroidery hoop in her hands. She set it aside and held out her arms, and he threw himself into them. The safest place, the one place where nothing in the whole world could hurt him._

_“What is it, darling?” she asked softly, stroking his head._

_“I fell down,” he whimpered, sniffling pathetically. “I’m bleeding, Rosa.” He held up his arm to show her the scrape on his elbow, filling up slowly with bright, red blood._

_“Oh, love,” Rosa cooed, smiling. “That’s nothing. I’ll clean it up for you.” She kissed his forehead and reached for a scrap of fabric from the pile at her side. She dipped one end of it in the cup of water Carmine had left from that morning, and softly scrubbed at his wound. He tried to hold back his sniffling, so she wouldn’t see him cry any more._

_“There you are,” she said. “All better. And you’re not even bleeding anymore, see?” She lifted up his arm and kissed his elbow for good measure._

_“Yeah, but….” He wiped his eyes. “It scared me….”_

_“It’s just blood. Your clumsy lusus pricks her finger all the time with her needle. Look, see?” She picked up her needle and pressed it gently against her fingertip. A tiny, shining bead of jade green welled up slowly. His eyes widened._

_“See?” She smiled at him. “And I’m just fine.”_

_“…Yours is a different color from mine,” he mumbled. He looked like he didn’t know what to think of that._

_“True,” she replied, adjusting him slightly in her lap. “But do you know what I think, Carmine?”_

_“What, Rosa?”_

_“I think they’re both beautiful colors.” She brushed a bit of his wayward hair out of his eyes. “Different doesn’t mean that one is better and one is worse. Different means different. They can both be good.”_

~~~

The Signless opened his eyes—well, only one would really open—and was sore all over. It was dark, wherever he was, and it smelled awful. He was sitting on something cold, and he felt the sting of open wounds all over his face and arms and legs and body….

He tried to stretch. It didn’t happen. He realized his arms were being pulled upward, and then he felt the cold bite of shackles on his wrists. He groaned, but even the motion of exhalation sent spasms of pain throughout his chest.

Sight was coming easier. There was too little light in here to really see, not even with trolls’ lowlight vision, but he could make out vertical bars ahead of him. A cell. Prison bars.

Caught. That was what had happened. The previous night—or was it earlier tonight? There was just no way to tell—flashed into his mind. The sermon had started well…he’d thanked everyone for coming, promised them that they would be safe…and then the Psiioniic, rushing inside, screaming and frantic, and then…

…then chaos. And blood. And death.

And he hadn’t seen where anybody had gone.

The Signless moved his strained neck to see if there were any others in the cells next to him. He prayed that he was the only one.

His breath caught when he saw another troll in the cell to his left. He’d recognize the silhouette of those horns anywhere, even in his dying moments….

“…Rosa?” he said, his voice like a knife in his throat. He coughed, and even that felt like razors scraping his insides. “Rosa?” he asked again.

There was the sound of chains clinking together. The figure moved closer to the partition between the cells. The Signless couldn’t move from his position, but it seemed she had been given a little more freedom.

His eyes adjusted, and he saw the face of his lusus, smiling at him through the bars. Dry, faded jade green blood was covering her forehead, dripping down to stain her beautiful dress. Her eyes still shone with deepest love as she looked at him.

“I’m here, love,” she said. She reached out her hand, but Carmine couldn’t reach it. “I’m right here.”

“…I’m sorry, Rosa,” he blurted out, tears suddenly streaming down his face, the salt stinging his open wounds. The words came out as sobs, over and over, the motion agitating his bruised body but there was nothing he could do to stop it. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry….”

“Shhh,” she said. “It’s all right, Carmine. Don’t cry, my love. Be a brave troll.”

“I killed them, I killed all of them. They died because of me,” he rambled as the tears fell down faster. “Rosa, I wanted to save them…I couldn’t save them, I couldn’t….”

“Shhh,” came the Dolorosa’s voice. “Shh….”

He wanted to curl up in her lap again. He wanted to be a little wriggler again, the one with dreams and a blood color he didn’t understand. He wanted to wake up because he’d rolled out of his sopor slime, to have the Dolorosa’s arms keep all the nightmares away, because nothing could hurt her, and nothing could hurt him when they were together.

But he wasn’t a wriggler, and never would be again. He and the Dolorosa had touched for the last time.

\---

Staying awake was too hard.

Carmine lost track of how many times he dozed off. Sometimes he woke up and thought he’d dreamed the Dolorosa next to him. Other times he’d awaken and see her there still. Every time, it hurt. It hurt to breathe, to sit there and blink his unswollen eye. His shoulders ached from being held taut against the wall. His mouth and lips were burning with thirst but he doubted he’d ever eat, much less drink, again.

Neither the Disciple nor the Psiioniic had been brought in. Carmine hung onto the hope that they were both still free. For their sakes, he prayed he would never see them again. If they were free now, he hoped they’d have the sense to stay that way. He was already lost, he knew it for certain.

Sometimes he would despair of the possibility that they’d both been killed in the confusion. He tried to tell himself that not knowing was better.

The next time he woke up, he heard voices. One was Rosa’s. The other…was a familiar voice, one that filled him with both terror and ecstasy to hear.

“…Psiioniic?” Carmine turned his head to the right, blinking furiously, daring to hope, daring to hope that it was him and not him at the same time….

His matesprit was leaning up against the bars, gazing at the far wall. At the sound of Carmine’s voice, the Psiioniic turned his red-and-blue eyes towards him, and smiled the weakest smile Carmine had ever seen. The color of his eyes was dull.

“I told you to run,” was all Carmine could think to say. “I told you….”

“…He caught me.” The Psiioniic remained still, moving nothing but his eyes as he spoke. Movement, it seemed, was too difficult for him as well.

“…Where’s the Disciple?”

“I don’t know.”

It was silent again. They slept.

\---

The door slammed open. Carmine jerked awake, the ringing resounding in his skull heavily. Faceless trolls came forward and unlocked him from the wall. They forced him upright, ignoring his screams at the burning pain in his shoulders. His hands were re-secured behind him, and they began to drag him out of the cell, despite the fact that he could barely move his legs.

“…Where are you going?” The Psiioniic’s voice, small and sleepy. The rattle of chains as he crawled closer to the front of his cell. “Where are you going! Carmine!” he shouted helplessly.

Another door opened. The other trolls dragged Carmine through it, and it shut, the bang deafening, leaving the Psiioniic and his voice behind.

They went up a set of stairs. Light was growing gradually, but even the slightest change was hell on his eyes. He forced them shut, tried to blink them back open to adjust. He didn’t bother keeping track of where they were going.

Eventually, another door was opened and shut. He was thrown into a chair. There was a muddle of voices. The door opened and shut yet again, and all Carmine could hear was the sound of his own haggard breathing.

Wait…that wasn’t…that wasn’t _his_ breathing….

“My beautiful motherfucking infidel.” It was a deep-throated, husky voice, mixed with a touch of laughter and malice. An enormous claw stained with rainbows of blood reached out and caressed Carmine’s face, impossibly gentle. It lifted his head up, and he was staring into wild, indigo eyes.

“He’s so little,” came another voice. A female voice, full of disgust and highest arrogance. Footsteps came forward, and the Grand Highblood moved to let the newcomer see.

“Ugh. Dis _gust_ ing, filthy landdweller.” Elegant, fuchsia seatroll eyes stared down at him with the utmost repulsion.

Her Imperious Condescension. She covered her nose and mouth with one hand, turned away slightly, the sight and smell and presence of him offending her on absolutely every level.

“ _This_ is the Signless?” she asked, her voice sounding far away. “ _This_ is the shit-dwelling grub that’s been making such a racket?”

The Grand Highblood laughed, his sonorous voice standing in stark contrast to her siren-like tone. “Would you like to see his putrid, shit-filled color?” He grabbed Carmine’s hair and yanked, forcing his head up and placing his claws directly on his neck.

“ _No_ , you coddamn imbecile,” the Condesce nearly shrieked, scurrying backwards as the Grand Highblood giggled murderously. He released Carmine’s hair and his head dropped painfully against his chest.

“You just stand there,” said the seatroll, as something metal scraped across the floor, “and wait until I’ve done with him. Then you may do whatever you wish.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The Highblood sloppily licked his lips.

The piercing cold of trident spear pricked the underside of Carmine’s chin, and then he was forced to look up, up into the eyes of the highest troll on Alternia. The possessor of the highest color known to any troll, the queen of all castes was condescending to speak to him, the lowest of mutants, child of shit and filth.

“You may think you have changed something,” she hissed quietly, beautiful even as pure hate filled her gleaming eyes. “You may think that you have caused something to come loose in this beautiful machine of mine. Things go a certain way for a reason, little one. You lowbloods wallow in filth because it is all you are fit for. That will never— _never_ —change.”

He pulled in a shuddering breath but did not fear her trident. She wouldn’t cut him; she’d never defile her weapon with his color.

“You are going to die, signless mutant,” she said. “And nobody for the whole of history will remember your name.”

“…You will.”

The Condesce’s eyes opened wide in rage. He spoke? How dare he speak in front of her!

Carmine blinked wearily, unable to focus his sight on her completely. “You’ll…you’ll remember me.” He smiled weakly.

She laughed, and the Grand Highblood laughed as well. “You’re a funny little freak, my little grub,” she declared. She stood up straight and slammed the end of her trident in his foot. Carmine bit his tongue as he felt the bones break. “Just how many of your kind do you think I’ve cleaned out?”

“…I…I don’t know,” he managed out. “Tell me. How many?”

The seatroll and the Highblood peered down at him curiously. They glanced at each other; was he growing delirious?

“You’ll remember me,” Carmine declared again. “You’ll remember because I scare you.”

“Her Imperious Condescension fears no troll,” the Grand Highblood growled, taking a step forward. The Condesce raised a hand, halting him.

“Hold a moment,” she told him. “I thought you appreciated jokes, Highblood. Let him finish.”

“Tell me, Empress…” Carmine asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Does anybody…does anybody love you?”

“Every troll loves me.” She grinned. “Do you have a point to make, or are you rambling?”

“Does anybody love you for who _you_ are…or do they just love you for your blood color?”

“Who wouldn’t love my most perfect of colors?”

“Has anybody…anybody ever gotten close to you?” Carmine asked, trying to focus his eyes on her. “Empress…when you’re sad…who holds you?”

The Condesce opened her mouth as if to speak, but for the first time, words failed her. Her eyes searched his face, furious, confused, unable to understand what he was possibly talking about….

“Nobody.” Carmine smiled sadly. “That’s what I thought. …I’m sorry, Empress. I’m sorry that you’re alone….”

The Grand Highblood growled dangerously. “For all the talking you’ve been doing lately you’d think you’d know when to _shut the fuck up!!_ ” With one massive hand he grabbed Carmine by the front of his ruined shirt, lifting him and the chair completely into the air, and tossed him across the floor. Lying there on his side, all his weight shifted in just the wrong way, Carmine heaved and retched from the pain.

“Motherfucking disgusting freak,” the Highblood murmured, grabbing Carmine’s head in one hand and slamming it down into the blood he’d choked up.

The doors opened again, and trolls were running towards him, forcing him up, ignoring his yelps and cries of pain from his broken foot, the sore, twisted muscles. The Condesce and the Highblood watched as he was dragged away, neither of them pleased, but still possessing every last hold over his life, and everything he had.

\---

They came to take Carmine away every day. The Psiioniic didn’t know exactly what they did, only that they were beating him, and didn’t care to clean him up when they returned him. The Dolorosa fought back tears every night and day, but the Psiioniic could hear her crying when she pretended to sleep. Hating that she couldn’t hold her wriggler. Hating that she was powerless to help him, hating that this was what her fateful moment of compassion all those sweeps ago had come to.

They were fed, but meagerly. Whatever they gave the Psiioniic was laced with the stuff that numbed his psionics. He could tell in the way that it had no flavor, in the way that his tongue and mouth lost all feeling when he was finished. A different troll came each time to give them their meals. Carmine had to be hand-fed; sometimes the trolls would help him with no fuss. Other trolls would make a joke of it, spitting in his food before they forced it down his throat. Some trolls didn’t bother at all.

Dualscar came on what the Psiioniic believed was the third day.

The Psiioniic’s movements weren’t as constricted as Carmine’s, though he normally chose to position himself in the far corner, curled up as tightly as he could manage. When the door opened, he didn’t think anything of it or look up. He figured it was a troll come to take his dishes away.

It was only when he heard Carmine’s raspy, growled words that he raised his eyes. “Get. Away. From him,” the Signless breathed out roughly.

The Psiioniic’s head whipped up and suddenly Dualscar was there, embracing him from behind and covering him with his purple cape. “Oh come now,” he crooned softly. “I thought you were all about acceptance and forgiveness, isn’t that right?”

“Don’t you touch him,” the Signless said again. One of Dualscar’s seatrolls banged against his cell bars loudly.

“Shut the fuck up, Preacher,” she cackled.

“Have you thought about my offer, grub?” Dualscar asked, leaning on him heavier. “I’ve got your respiteblock all cleaned up for you. I replaced the window and I even bought you a present or two. Come back with me, and we’ll talk about this.”

The Psiioniic said nothing, trying to bury himself deep into his own consciousness. Dualscar couldn’t get him there. The seatroll’s hand was stroking his hair, and he was rocking him slightly.

“I won’t even be mad at you, Psiioniic,” Dualscar whispered. “I promise. I won’t yell. I won’t hit you. I won’t hurt you. I just want you back, grub. I’ve missed you.”

“…You’re lying,” the Psiioniic said. His voice did not sound like his own. “You always lied.”

“No, no, grub,” Dualscar replied, his voice dripping with vile, fake earnestness. “Tell you what—I’ll even get those two to come with us. If you cooperate. If you just—” he kissed the Psiioniic’s face “—give me what I want.”

“Ignore him,” Carmine called over. “Psiioniic, look at me.”

“Yes, do that,” came Dualscar’s voice, like freezing wind off the ocean. “You can look at him if you want. You can…pretend I’m him. Say _his_ name.” His embrace grew tighter, and he moved his face closer. “If that’s what you want to do, grub…I won’t mind.”

The Psiioniic didn’t move. If he moved he was lost. He was safe here, perhaps not entirely safe but safe enough, wrapped up in himself. He pulled his knees in tighter, buried his face in them deeper, as Dualscar’s hand began to move down, pulling and tugging at his clothes like so many times when he was younger….

Something sparked in him. The Psiioniic lifted his head and stared Dualscar straight in his luminous violet eyes. Mustering up as much saliva as he could, he spat directly in Dualscar’s face. The expression on the seatroll was unbelievably worth it. Even when Dualscar screamed with rage and slammed the Psiioniic’s face into the nearby bars, he didn’t regret it.

“Fucking pissblood,” Dualscar muttered, standing up and wiping his face, eyes flaring with fury. “You’re gonna regret that, you’re gonna regret that, you’re gonna fuckin’ _wish_ you could take it back. You’re gonna wish you could take _everyfuckingthing_ back!!”

Dualscar turned and stomped out of the Psiioniic’s cell, the other seatroll slamming the door shut behind him. The Psiioniic grinned to himself for half a second, but Dualscar didn’t turn right, he didn’t head for the exit….

He was going the other way. Towards the other cells. Towards…towards the Dolorosa’s cell.

“Wait,” the Psiioniic rasped desperately, unfolding himself and grabbing the bars between his and Carmine’s cell. “Wait, Dualscar—”

“Shut the fuck up, grub,” Dualscar replied as he threw open the door to the Dolorosa’s cell. “Your chances are all gone. Every last fuckin’ one of them.” He turned his eyes towards the Psiioniic and Carmine, and insanity flashed in them.

The reality of what was about to happen hit Carmine like the deepest sting, and he struggled uselessly, always uselessly, against his chains.

“No—Dualscar NO! _Rosa!_ ”

The Dolorosa pushed herself up against the far wall as Dualscar approached her, and the seatroll was so huge against her slender frame, and she lifted a hand to keep him away—

—Dualscar grabbed her up from the floor, eliciting a shrill scream and a plea, a frantic, hopeless plea for mercy, for pity….

She was underneath him, her arms pulled tight above her from her chains’ position on the walls, and she was begging, begging for him to stop, but Dualscar lifted up her dress and his hand was all over her, defiling her with every touch, ruining and violating her in front of her child.

“ _STOP!!_ ” Carmine screamed. Or perhaps the Psiioniic had said it…it didn’t matter. They were both shouting, both being ignored, both powerless.

“Please,” the Dolorosa whimpered through her tears, “not in front of them. Not in front of my children….” Dualscar was beside her, obscuring Carmine’s view of his lusus. The darkness was crippling his sight, and he could make out only the vaguest of silhouettes.

She threw her head back and screamed as Dualscar touched her, Carmine couldn’t see what he was doing but he saw the seatroll’s arm moving and the Dolorosa writhing beneath him…. “ _AaaaaahSTOP—STOP!_ Dualscar, please—!”

He only laughed, and kissed her. “Your so-called children did this to you, my dear,” he said roughly, his face beginning to fill up with the heat of lust.

The sounds lasted forever. Every sob, every exhaled breath of pleasure, every scream and every thump of his hand against her face. Carmine felt his heart stopping, his breath failing him, his mind breaking, his own body withering.

He felt himself dying, piece by piece, little bits of him floating away, as his lusus screamed with the most undignified pain.

Then came the sound of Dualscar unfastening his belt buckle.

The Dolorosa reached out with a shaking hand towards her wriggler. “Carmine,” she said, her face streaked with jade tears. “Carmine, love, don’t look. Close your eyes.”

“Rosa…” Carmine hiccupped out, his scant energy already used up. “Dualscar, please, you don’t have to do this….”

Dualscar grinned and laughed hungrily, his eyes never leaving the prize beneath him. He grabbed the front of the Dolorosa’s dress and tore it in one motion, leaving her exposed, open, and bare.

“Carmine,” the Dolorosa said again, her voice unsteady. “Close your eyes. Think of the desert. Think of—think of a happy memory, my love….”

The shadow was over her again. Carmine squeezed his eyes shut, tried to blur out the sounds around him, the Dolorosa’s crying, the Psiioniic’s screaming, Dualscar’s mad laughter….

~~~

_“Come look, loves! The flutterbugs are out tonight.”_

_“They are!?” Carmine exclaimed excitedly, jumping up off the floor and dropping his chalk. “Psionic, have you ever seen a flutterbug?”_

_The little yellowblood shook his head, staring confused, but curious. He set the chalk to the side and followed Carmine out. The Dolorosa was sitting on the porch, and there were dozens of the most radiantly colored winged insects covering the ground in front of her. They flew silently, gracefully, up into the air, into the small copse of trees behind the hive. No two had the same colors, the same pattern, the same shape of wings._

_“Look, look!” Carmine exclaimed, crouching down and pointing at a few. “Psionic, look, they’re so pretty, they only come out once a sweep!”_

_“They’re tho little…” the Psionic mumbled, keeping his distance. “Are they gonna get hurt?”_

_“Not if you’re careful with ‘em! Look, see?” Carmine gently cupped his hands around one flutterbug, with wings of blazing orange and white and black. It flapped its wing a few times as he pulled it off the ground, and then was content to remain motionless in his palm. Carmine held it up to the Psionic’s face for him to look._

_“You can’t touch their wings,” Carmine explained knowingly. “But you can pick ‘em up, just like this. Here, hold out your hand….”_

_The Psionic warily cupped his hands just as he’d seen Carmine do, and tried not to let them tremble as Carmine coaxed the little creature into them. The flutterbug weighed nothing at all. It took a few steps on his hands, its little legs tickling. The Psionic giggled in spite of himself, and the flutterbug took flight._

_More were coming. Carmine and the Psionic marveled at all their colors, at the way the moonlight caught the sheen off their wings. A glowing jade one was balanced on the Dolorosa’s outstretched finger, and she regarded it fondly as if trying to memorize the swirling patterns within its wings._

_“Oh, Psionic, look!” Carmine declared, creeping carefully towards one bug in particular. He picked it up, hiding it within enclosed, curved hands, and ran over to the Psionic. Slowly, he opened his palms, and held it out for the Psionic to see._

_“This one looks like you!” he laughed._

_The flutterbug’s wings were the purest, most golden shade of yellow. Two dots, one deep red and the other bright, solid blue, covered each wing. The bug turned to face the Psionic and flapped its wings once with pride. The Psionic grinned, and lifted his hands to take it. The flutterbug hopped out of Carmine’s hands and landed on the Psionic’s nose._

_“It likes you,” said Carmine, grinning widely._

_“Do you know what’s special about that one?” the Dolorosa asked._

_“What’s that?”_

_“They’re primary colors,” she explained. She gestured to the hordes of other flutterbugs dotting the ground. “All the colors these bugs have come from those three.”_

_“What do you mean?” the Psionic asked, struggling not to move lest he scare the flutterbug off his face._

_“Red, blue, and yellow. Every color in the whole world can be made from them. So in a way, they connect every troll together.”_

~~~

The sound of Dualscar lifting the Dolorosa off the ground and pinning her to the wall broke through the memory, blurring the images and distorting the sound of the past. Carmine grit his teeth, blocked out his senses, dug deeper inside….

~~~

_“Look, darling. Do you see the stars, Carmine?” She pointed up at the sky, showing him the spot right beside the purple moon. “See how those look like a rectangle, with four dots on the outside?”_

_Her wriggler’s head was in her lap, and he squinted, frowning at the sky. “Yeah. I see it. What about it?”_

_“We call those constellations. They make pictures in the sky. That one is the image of a great warrior. They say he could send his enemies running scared from just the sound of his voice.”_

_Carmine laughed. “It doesn’t look like that! It’s just a square, Rosa.”_

_“You’ve got to use your imagination a bit, silly,” she replied, poking him in the stomach. Carmine flinched and giggled._

_“Are there more?” he asked curiously._

_“Oh, there’s plenty more! So many in fact, that your lusus probably doesn’t even know all of them.”_

_“What if you like….” Carmine lifted his arms, spreading them wide against the sky. “What if you made a picture out of_ all _the stars? What if all the stars in the sky were just one big consel—ton—uh, lation thingy?” He looked up into the Dolorosa’s eyes._

_His lusus laughed softly and stroked his hair. “I think that sounds like the most beautiful picture of all, Carmine.”_

_“But what would that be called?”_

_“Well, that’s the whole universe, love. What would you name it, if you could?”_

_Carmine stared pensively up at the stars, his tiny face screwed up in deepest thought. “I don’t…” he mumbled, “I don’t think I should name it. I mean it’s not like it’s mine.”_

~~~

The memory burst again.

Dualscar had finished with the Dolorosa. She was slumped up against the wall, wiping the jade tears from her face but it was stained. She wouldn’t clean them that easily. She grabbed at the remains of her dress, trying to cover herself, scraping for the last remnants of dignity. The other seatroll walked into the cell as Dualscar walked out and unlocked her from her restraints. The Dolorosa was forced to her feet and led out into the hall, following Dualscar.

As she passed Carmine’s cell she smiled at him. It was the smile of his lusus, the same look the Dolorosa had given him every day…but changed. Broken. Like a crumpled piece of paper, smoothed out, that would never be perfect again.

“Dualscar! _DUALSCAR!!_ ” the Psiioniic screamed uselessly. The seatroll ignored him wholly, taking his new prize and toy with him. The door shut behind them, and the Dolorosa was gone.

“Carmine, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” the Psiioniic said, wiping away his messy tears. “I should have gone with him, I never thought he’d do that, I never thought he’d—I should have let him do it to me. I would have been okay. I would have been okay, Carmine, I’m….” A shuddering sob escaped him and he sniffled, unable to dry his tears faster than they came. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry….”

Carmine didn’t move. Or speak. Or cry. He didn’t have the strength to hold his head up. He hung there, trying to conjure up the memory of his lusus’ smile, of her laugh, of her warm touch and how she always smelled so sweet and fresh….

All he heard were her screams. All he saw was her face streaked with jade tears and blood. Dualscar’s claws as he ripped and tore her apart, destroyed and devastated her. He’d do it again. His cold fists would bruise her gentle arms, Carmine’s haven. His rough, hungry lips would tear and chafe against hers, the ones that had once kissed away Carmine’s pain. Her dress…her beautiful, shimmering green dress….

Red tears began to fall from his eyes. He let them drop, lacking even the strength to sob.


	26. Spectrum

“ _Eat_ , you stupid freak.”

The purpleblooded troll grabbed Carmine’s chin and wrenched his mouth open, shoving a spoonful of indeterminate glop down his throat. Carmine refused to chew or swallow, but the purpleblood kept his hand clamped over his mouth, rubbing Carmine’s throat until his muscles were forced to react. And then the process repeated.

“How the fuck did I get stuck doing this…?” the other troll muttered, his motions getting rougher and rougher. After the fifth spoonful had gone down the Signless’ throat and the redblooded troll still did not move, the purpleblood threw the utensil down in disgust.

“That’s good enough,” he snarled. He got up, emptying the remains of the food in a distant corner of the cell. He left, grumbling under his breath, and slammed the door shut on his way out.

The Psiioniic lifted his head. He rarely moved from this spot against the partition; it was the closest he could be to Carmine.

“Carmine,” he whispered softly. His matesprit didn’t react. Didn’t move. He’d been like that for nights. He didn’t even cry anymore.

“Please eat when they come to feed you. You need it. Promith me, pleath?”

“I haven’t been able to keep any promise I’ve ever made, Psiioniic,” Carmine replied. It never sounded like him when he spoke anymore. His voice, his beautiful, strong voice full of hope and dreams and desire, was dying.

“It wasn’t your fault,” the Psiioniic told him, as he had every night since the Dolorosa was taken. “Please, Carmine. It wasn’t your fault.”

His matesprit never answered.

The Psiioniic strained, reaching for his mental energies, feeling for the feather-light feeling of his psionics, but they simply weren’t there anymore. He’d eaten so much of that awful stuff that he wouldn’t be surprised if his psionics had burned out completely. The thought was devastating, but even worse was the fact that he was useless to his matesprit this way. He couldn’t push any comfort into Carmine’s head, couldn’t soothe him with calming red and blue, couldn’t touch him in any way at all.

\---

An unknowable amount of time passed. Carmine’s cell door was opened, and again his arms were taken down from their position on the wall. He didn’t scream when he was pulled up onto his broken and mangled foot, nor at the torturous soreness in his shoulders. He didn’t walk; his injury didn’t allow it. He let them drag him, his hands chained behind him. Carmine almost didn’t remember what it was like for them to be free.

It was a different room that they dropped him in. A door opened, and he was thrown onto the floor. He landed hard on his shoulder, felt something wrench, and he grit his teeth against the pain. The action wasn’t enough to stifle the sensation, and he groaned aloud, coughing and swallowing back the vomit that always threatened to come up.

He closed his eyes. Maybe he could sleep here, just for a time, for a little while….

Heavy footsteps. Heavy breathing, laced with hungry laughter. Claws twisted in the back of Carmine’s cloak, lifting him slowly up to his feet. Carmine opened his eyes, blinking, and was staring into the ghost-white face of the Grand Highblood.

“Hello, infidel,” the Highblood crooned, grinning wide. “Glad you could take time out of your busy schedule to pay me a visit.”

The Highblood carried him over to a wide, high-backed chair, crusted over with every possible color. He settled himself down in it, lifting Carmine up and setting him almost gently in his lap.

“You know,” the purpleblood said, resting his chin on one clenched fist, “I’ve given your heresy some thought and I think not all of it’s bad. I like the idea of all the colors working together too.” He gestured at the walls of the chamber, all of them painted with troll blood, every color accounted for, even the violet of seatrolls and the tyrian of unfortunate heiresses.

“There is one color I’m missing, though,” the Highblood said thoughtfully, stroking Carmine’s listless head, raking back and forth through his hair. “That’s yours.” With one jagged nail he sliced Carmine diagonally across the chest. Thick, viscous beads of candy red oozed out of the gashes and down Carmine’s body, and the Grand Highblood’s eyes were flashing with excitement. He opened his mouth and extended his fat, indigo tongue to lick it up.

“So good,” he moaned, shuddering with something like lust. He grabbed Carmine’s head in one hand, pulling it closer to his face. “Infidel, you taste so…motherfucking…good.”

There was nothing Carmine could do as the Highblood’s painted lips pressed against his own, the larger troll’s skin blazing with heat and pleasure. Every breath the Highblood exhaled into Carmine’s face smelled of hot metal.

“Sweeps ago, when you put your filthy hands on me,” the Grand Highblood whispered as softly as he was able, “you cast a wicked motherfucking spell on me. Your color drives me right the fuck up the wall, infidel.” He cackled, licking at the wound again, bleeding afresh. “In the one instant you touched me, I felt motherfucking _calm_ for the first time in my life. Head didn’t hurt so much; hadn’t even known I had a fuckin’ headache until you made it go away. And you know, I just can’t figure out if I liked it or if you just pissed me off _beyond_ anger.”

Carmine was too numb to feel afraid. Too dead to feel angry. He laid like a corpse in the Grand Highblood’s lap, no energy left in him to struggle against the Highblood’s touch. With every word the monstrous troll accentuated, his voice came out in husky breaths, tumbling into Carmine’s face.

“All— _all_ —I’ve wanted to do these past few sweeps is feel you again, mutant. Yet you slipped through my hands so expertly all this time. It builds up a lot of frustration in a troll, you see. I’ve got sweeps’ worth of emotions to…sort out with you.”

Carmine weakly bit his lower lip. This time he actually did find the strength to whine quietly.

“You see,” the Highblood continued, adjusting Carmine in his lap, “you can’t just go around stirring shit up on _my_ Alternia. The Condesce and I have things worked out a certain way for a reason. Trying to fuck that up…it warrants a bit of punishment. But it doesn’t have to be quite so unpleasant for you.”

Carmine tensed as the Highblood ran his claw up and down his bruised legs, slowly moving towards his inner thigh, and further up and up and up….

“We’re executing you at sunset,” the Highblood breathed into his ear. “You’re gonna have just what you always wanted. Every—single—troll on Alternia is gonna be looking at your beautiful face. Everyone’s gonna be looking at you, mutant, just like you wanted. Everybody’s gonna watch your freak body burn. You’re gonna go out like the most beautiful motherfucking star.”

 _Be brave,_ came the Dolorosa’s voice, unbidden, into his head. Carmine bit his lip harder, his body tensed to the point of trembling.

“I know. It’s fucking scary.” The Grand Highblood kissed Carmine’s face, more tenderly than Carmine had thought possible. The indigoblood laughed. “It’s _insanely_ motherfucking scary. But I can help you. In fact, we can help each other.” He kissed him again.

“If you want…” came the Highblood’s soft, breathy voice into Carmine’s ear, “I can even arrange things so that you don’t have to go up there at all. If you want, infidel, you can stay with me. Right here in my lap, this’ll be _your_ motherfucking spot. And I’ll protect you. I don’t take kindly to naughty grubs that try to steal my motherfucking paints.” He rubbed the inside of Carmine’s legs up and down, his touch impossibly tender. The Highblood was all muscle, every inch of his body tight and solid as stone. There was enough strength in one hand to crush any one of Carmine’s bones in an instant.

“I keep you safe,” the Grand Highblood whispered, “and you keep me relaxed. Keep me thinking straight. Just being with you, infidel, it’s enough to wash out all my stress. Wouldn’t that be a nice arrangement?”

“…I’d like to go back to my cell now,” Carmine whispered feebly, not looking the Highblood in the eye.

There was a heart-stopping pause.

“Back to your—oh, that’s right.” The Grand Highblood let out a loud, barking laugh. “That’s right! You want your psionic, don’t you? I’d forgotten about all the pissblood fluid you’ve filled up your nook with.”

He lifted his hand and abruptly pressed the tips of his sharpened nails into Carmine’s stomach. Carmine gasped in sudden pain and shock, the Highblood’s nails pushing until the bright red blood welled up, pressing deeper and deeper inside. “Let’s hope that color didn’t fuck yours all up in here.”

“No, no—” Carmine tried to struggle but he had no strength left. The endless nights of immobility had ravaged him, atrophying his limbs. He caught his breath as he felt the Grand Highblood’s rough hands—wrong, wrong, _wrong_ —ripping him open, digging into him….

“Ye-e-es!” the Highblood howled mirthfully as he pushed his claws further in. “Writhe for me, mutant! It’s so motherfucking _hot_ when you struggle, let me hear those chains clanging, infidel!!”

It hurt, it hurt so badly, the pain was impossibly sharp, unendingly agonizing. With a lurch of sickness Carmine felt the Grand Highblood’s nails moving under his skin, and for an instant he was afraid that his stomach would actually be ripped open. All the while, the Highblood laughed with glee and anticipation. Perhaps Carmine had imagined it, but the Highblood’s voice sounded different from before…it was louder, unsteady, mad. A ring of murderous red appeared on the outside of his indigo irises. It seemed he no longer cared about Carmine’s well-being or keeping him safe.

“I want to hear you crying, signless mutant,” the Highblood rasped. “I want to hear you banging your feet against the floor. I want to look into your ugly red eyes and see you absolutely fucking _needing_ me.”

Carmine was not going to cry. The Signless would never cry, not even broken as he was. He would not give the Grand Highblood the pleasure, the joy, the satisfaction of that victory. The Signless would suffer for Alternia; but he would not, he would _never_ , be a victim. He gritted his teeth, the strain of his contracting muscles sending cold sweats up and down his body, and pulled against his chains, feeling the metal cut deep into his wrists, so he could focus on that pain instead. He didn’t scream.

Finally, the Highblood stopped. He searched Carmine’s face, tensed and set against the agony. “Not gonna say I’m not impressed, mutant…but I’m also disappointed.”

He pulled his claws out of Carmine’s stomach, and regarded the scarlet paint on his nails. “So I assume that means your answer is no?” The red tinge of insanity had not left his eyes. He cut Carmine a sideways glance, but the Signless said nothing. He tried not to stare down at the bruised gashes dotting his abdomen. Tried not to hiss in pain at the sharp sting of his blood bubbling out of them.

“You’ve got a shitton of nerve, mutant,” the Grand Highblood said. “Rejecting my offer. Rejecting _me_.” The Highblood bared his teeth, and in a swift, sudden movement grabbed Carmine by the neck. He jumped to his feet, lifting Carmine several inches off the ground. Unable to struggle or breathe, Carmine hung there in utter agony.

“ _Do you think you’re motherfucking higher than me?!_ ” the Highblood demanded, spittle flying out of his mouth and onto Carmine’s face. “I am higher than _all_ you motherfuckers!! I offer you life and my personal protection and you choose _DEATH_!!”

He released his hold on Carmine’s neck, and the Signless fell to the floor, crying out in feeble pain as his ruined foot hit the floor.

“May I never see your putrid color again,” the Highblood growled. He bent over Carmine, his face hovering inches from the prone troll’s ear. “You are a freak, with sewage for blood, and you have changed _NOTHING_.”

The Signless whispered something. It was small, faint, but steady. “I’m sorry….”

The Grand Highblood furrowed his brow in frustration. But he let Carmine speak.

“I’m sorry that you’re in…in pain…” Carmine said, his entire body still. He took in a slow, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry…Highblood….”

As if responding to some silent cue, the door opened and trolls came in to take him away. The Grand Highblood watched silently, bewilderment in his indigo eyes.

\---

When Carmine came back his entire torso was coated in blood. The Psiioniic sat up and watched with a piercing gaze as the other trolls re-chained him to the wall. Carmine groaned and cried out as they roughly yanked his arms upward.

“Be fucking careful!” the Psiioniic shouted. He was ignored. The trolls finished, locked the door, and left.

“Hey.” The Psiioniic reached through the bars as far as he could. Even then there was still a good ten or fifteen feet of concrete floor separating them. “What happened?”

Carmine breathed in slowly, somewhat afraid his stomach might puncture if he inhaled too fast. “Grand Highblood…says they’re gonna execute me. At sunset.”

The Psiioniic felt the blood drain from his face. His whole body went cold and he started to shake. The world stopped spinning…time stopped moving. Reality froze. “Th—sunthet? Of…of today?”

Carmine nodded, and then laughed hoarsely in spite of himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“…So…this is it?” The Psiioniic’s voice was so small. Carmine turned his head to look at him, and there were yellow tears filling up his heterochromatic eyes. “…This is the last time I’m gonna talk to you? Ever?”

Carmine didn’t know what to say. They’d both known it might happen. They’d both accepted the danger and all the risks. Knowing and acceptance did nothing to ease pain. Did nothing to heal grief or dry tears.

 _When was the last time we touched?_ the Psiioniic wondered. _It must have been…must have been walking back from our date…._

“Are they…are they gonna execute me too?” the Psiioniic asked. He saw Carmine cringe.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “The Highblood didn’t say anything about you.”

“D—do you think they would if…if I athked them to?”

“Psiioniic, no,” Carmine said firmly. “They’re looking to make an example of me. Whatever they have planned for me, I don’t want them to do it to you too.”

“So what am I thupposed to do!?” the yellowblood shouted. “I can’t—I can’t just….” His hands were shaking, and he was swallowing hard through his tightened throat but it only made the lump worse. The thought that tomorrow he’d wake up and see Carmine’s cell empty was ravaging his mind and his heart.

_I thought I had you. I thought I finally had you for good…._

He tried to think of something else to say but the words broke up in his mouth and tumbled out as sobs.

“Psiioniic…” Carmine said, wincing at the sight of his matesprit in the throes of such despair. “I’m sorry. I, uh….” He forced up a crooked grin. “Guess I won’t be…getting you that other glove. …I know you like to have everything in pairs.”

“…It’s okay,” the Psiioniic mumbled, wiping at his eyes. “It’s okay. I’ll deal with…just having the one.”

Bleak silence filled the space; time died with every passing second. They just stared at each other, watching one another. It wasn’t that they couldn’t think of anything to say. The words they needed just didn’t exist.

The light from the outside didn’t reach into the cells. There were no windows, and they didn’t know how soon or far away sunset was. They didn’t know if they had hours left or minutes.

The last time they had been apart, the Psiioniic had tried everything to forget Carmine. So he wouldn’t have to deal with the pain of wondering. So there wouldn’t be anything to miss, there wouldn’t be anything he had lost. He’d been a coward, afraid of his own grief. But it had never happened; there was nothing he could do to burn away the image of that sweet, loving wriggler. Not even the coldest nights aboard Dualscar’s ship could erase the memory of Carmine’s warmth and the last time they held each other.

“I’m not going to forget about you,” the Psiioniic said, breaking cracks in the frozen silence. “Not ever.”

Carmine laughed, his voice weak. It seemed he was already dying. “Me either.”

“You know you thaid…you told me that it was…because of me you wanted to tell everybody about your dreams.” The Psiioniic paused, his thoughts spinning hard. “Did you ever think that…meeting me would get you here?”

“…Psiioniic….” Carmine swallowed, then smiled. “I’d’ve still kissed you. Behind the hive that night.”

“…Yeah. Me too.”

Carmine giggled a bit. “You know what?”

“Hmm?”

“You never did tell me your real name. All this time you’ve just let me use that little nickname for you. But I still…don’t know the name your lusus gave you.”

The Psiioniic stared a bit, grinned, and then began to laugh. Yellow tears welled up in his eyes and he didn’t care about wiping them away. “You know what, I….” He giggled. “I don’t remember.”

Carmine smiled and started to laugh. It started small and faint, building up slowly, his true voice finally coming back to life. And then they both were laughing, the sound filling up the dark, cold prison, reaching into every one of its oppressive stones. After a while they forgot what had been so funny, they forgot why it was this reaction, of all things, that they were having. And it didn’t matter, the reason why. If the Psiioniic closed his eyes and ignored the chafing pain in his wrists, he could imagine that they were back home. Home in the desert with the Dolorosa, and Carmine was showing him or telling him about something new and amazing and beautiful. Telling him things he’d never known before. Filling up his dark, monochrome world with wondrous, exquisite color.

The Psiioniic had never regretted kissing Carmine all those sweeps ago. Not even now. Not even after everything.

It was worth it. It was all worth it.

The doors into the corridor opened and trolls swarmed in. There were almost ten of them. Most went to the Signless’ cell, grabbing him up with the usual carelessness. Once they had dragged him partway down the hall, the remaining trolls opened up the Psiioniic’s door and pulled him to his feet as well.

“Hope you’re feeling special,” said the tealblood restraining him. The Psiioniic didn’t know why they bothered. Where was he going to go? Without his psionics, what could he possibly do?

“The Grand Highblood said you get to come watch.” The Psiioniic could hear the grin in his voice. “Are you ready to watch your messiah burn?”


	27. The Sufferer

Red, orange, and yellow smeared the sky in chaotic patterns. The colors of the lowbloods, slaves, and pariahs cascaded down to the horizon in streaks, signaling the death of the day, heralding a new night. A fresh and darkened night, where the sky was full of the deep, dark blues and purples of highbloods and royalty. When the sun went down, those wretched colors would sink with it. Alternia would be safe, and protected again from the searing brilliance of light.

Outside the city, dark and colorless against the sky, a fire burned. The hills were full of screaming laughter and mad delight, trolls of every color and every caste come to witness, invited to behold this spectacle, the birth of an epoch. Against the dazzling orange of the sky, the crowd of trolls was a burning mass of black silhouettes, a sea of gnarled, twisted horns. Seatrolls howled cheers in shrill, piercing voices. The subjugglators laughed uproariously, eager for the show to begin. Bluebloods and tealbloods danced in their revelry, kicking and knocking down the lowbloods nearest them, refusing to let them crawl back to their feet. The lowbloods cowered in the small space they had been allotted, desperate to stay unnoticed. Nobody wanted to draw the attention of highbloods, not tonight. The rustbloods were only here because to be absent was to invite culling. They were perhaps the most important guests of all.

The multitude of trolls split. He was coming. The condemned. The Signless.

The shouts and jeers swelled. The seatrolls whistled and cheered, the bluebloods applauded, shouting obscenities and slurs. A few distraught redbloods tried to cry out to him, but they were silenced. Highbloods threw rocks and jagged pieces of metal at him, not caring if they hit his blueblood guards in the process. The few pieces of debris that did hit him scraped harmlessly.

The Signless did not raise his eyes. He kept his gaze firmly focused ahead of him, down the footpath of dust and dying flowers, towards what awaited him.

Her Imperious Condescension and the Grand Highblood stood eagerly, ready to receive him. The Condesce’s burnished gold jewelry flashed blindingly in the soaring light of the flames. The Grand Highblood’s monstrous hands hung at his sides, his fingers flexing over and over, his mouth stretched wide in a hungry grin. Between them was the flogging jut. A dull, gray slab of rock, a pair of shackles hanging from its highest point.

Standing off to the right was Orphaner Dualscar, his violet scars glowing, his face the very picture of satisfaction. He held one end of a chain that bound the Dolorosa’s hands. She looked as though she had stopped trying to fight tears. A bruise covered her left eye and her favorite dress had been done away with. She now wore the unadorned shift of a slave, and even from this far away the Signless could see her shaking. He tried to smile at her, promising her that he wasn’t going to cry anymore. He would be brave, because that was what she had made him.

Beside the fire was Executor Darkleer, a sheen of perspiration covering his features. He gazed stoically off into the distance, away from the spectacle, looking at though this could not interest him less. His enormous longbow was strung and ready, and in his other hand he held a single arrow, fletched with bright blue feathers.

And there…there, on the Condesce’s other side was the Psiioniic. A troll the Signless didn’t recognize was holding his restraints, though the Psiioniic was making no effort to struggle. The Signless and Psiioniic locked eyes, and for an instant the Signless felt his resolve weaken. He didn’t want the Psiioniic to see this. He didn’t want the Psiioniic to even know what was going to happen. The Signless wouldn’t be able to comfort him, not this time.

 _I guess I turned out to be a shitty matesprit after all,_ the Signless thought as the walk ended, and the Grand Highblood strode forward to meet him. The noise of the crowd faded to silence.

“Welcome, infidel,” the Grand Highblood growled excitedly, “to your last motherfucking sermon.”

The Signless’s escorts shoved him to the ground, forcing him to kneel in front of the highblood. He was only glad for the chance to be off his broken foot, which by now would never heal properly. Grimly, he thought it hardly mattered now.

The Grand Highblood lifted his massive foot and shoved his boot onto the Signless’s shoulder, pushing him down even farther, far past the point of comfort.

“Your Imperious Condescension!” the Highblood announced mirthfully. “Grace the crowd with your lovely voice and remind the mutant of his crimes.”

The Signless could see nothing but the ground, inches from his face. He blinked his eyes against the dust. The Empress laughed softly, walking forward on her small, delicate feet.

“For many sweeps I wondered how you survived this long without detection,” the Condesce said, her voice soft and wistful. “I wondered how you made it through the caverns. How you did not die out there. I wondered what lusus chose you. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be another traitor.”

The Signless tensed, unwillingly. The Empress laughed, a musical, lilting sound.

“But this occasion is not for her. It is all about you today, my special little freak!” She knelt down, and the Highblood removed his boot from the Signless’s shoulder. The Signless lifted his head, meeting bright fuchsia eyes and the disarming loveliness of Her Imperious Condescension. She put her fingers ever so lightly under his chin, turning his face up towards her.

“Mutants like you are culled for a reason. Do you see all the pain you have caused, my dear? Do you see all the trolls that have died and shed tears, all because you refused to die like the trash you are?” She smiled, her perfectly shaped lips upturning only slightly. “Pieces of refuse like you cannot possibly hope to change a thing. All these trolls will forget you. I will _personally_ ensure it.”

The Condesce rose to her feet and strolled away. The Grand Highblood licked his lips, letting his mouth hang open, reaching down to grab the back of the Signless’s cloak and yank him to his feet. In the same motion, the Highblood spun him around and clutched the Signless close to his chest, his massive claws digging deep into the Signless’s torso. He clenched his fingers into a fist, and ripped both Carmine’s cloak and shirt off effortlessly, tossing it into the fire.

The cheers and hollers of the crowd started up again. The bluebloods began calling out encouragement as their impatience swelled. The seatrolls continued to shriek their war cries, their shrill siren voices rising, and the lowbloods on the fringes began to cry and wail for mercy.

Several of the Highblood’s subjugglators approached, and they grabbed the shackles atop the flogging jut. They pulled them free, the chain holding them extending as it unwound from behind the rock slab. They tossed the shackles into the fire, laughing and giggling with their murderous, insane mirth.

Carmine watched the shackles slowly turn red from the heat, and his heart began to beat faster and he realized what he was about to experience. Behind him, the Grand Highblood’s grip grew tighter, and he grasped his claw around Carmine’s neck. The monstrous troll squeezed, and Carmine grabbed futilely at the wrist wringing life out of him as he gasped for breath.

“Heh…” came the indigo-blood’s voice, soft against his ear, but the only sound he could hear above the cacophony of bloodthirsty trolls. “Funny how you still resist. How you still scrape for a few more seconds of life when you know what awaits you.” He released his tight hold on Carmine’s neck, reveling in the feel of Carmine’s shuddering breaths against his body.

The subjugglators dragged the irons, blazing red hot, out of the fire. The searing metal did not appear to hurt them: whether their skin was just that calloused, or they were impervious to the pain, Carmine could not tell. The highbloods raised the shackles for the crowd to see, and again the cheering swelled, the noise painfully loud.

The Grand Highblood laughed with them, carrying Carmine forward. Towards those burning cuffs, towards his final moments. Carmine was paralyzed, refusing to move his feet as the Highblood pushed him onward, trying to ignore the Highblood’s laughter at his fear. He looked up in an attempt to catch the Psiioniic’s eyes, but his matesprit wasn’t looking. The yellowblood troll was trying to look away, but the bluebloods were grabbing his face and turning it forward, forcing him to look. Forcing him to watch.

The Grand Highblood grabbed Carmine’s arms, holding them out in front of him. The subjugglators removed the restraints already holding him, and brought forward the burning chains.

Carmine’s heart was beating faster and faster as the space between his skin and the red-hot metal closed, slowly, slowly….

One cuff went on. Carmine’s eyes went wide and he couldn’t have stopped his scream, not even if he’d tried. The agony was otherworldly, almost surreal in its intensity. The other cuff went on, and Carmine could smell his flesh burning, could feel his skin sticking to the metal melting away his skin. His shrieks were the only thing he could hear. He felt as though he would deafen himself, and almost hoped for it, because this was like nothing he’d felt in all his living moments. The pain reached a peak where he almost couldn’t feel it, and then went one step further, and he prayed for death. He prayed for release, prayed that they would slit his throat, just to silence him, just to stop this.

The Grand Highblood had released him, and they were winding up the chain again. Unable to control anything in his body, Carmine fell as they dragged him across the ground, and the crowd laughed and screamed and cheered and found things to throw again. Carmine hit the flogging jut and then was cranked upward, hanging from his red-hot irons, stretched out against the gray slab now dotted with his blood for all to see.

There could be no regard for dignity, no thoughts of how Alternia would see him and remember this moment. His brain was filled with agony and suffering, there was no room left to wonder what his lusus thought of him like this. No room to be angry about his matesprit’s remaining imprisonment, about how Carmine himself had done this to the yellowblood, how his stubbornness to keep the Psiioniic with him and his selfish possessiveness had damned his beloved friend to an unknown hell.

He didn’t feel the debris hitting him, piercing his skin. His screams weren’t wasted on the subjugglators’ claws scraping against his chest. At no point did that animalistic cry of anguish and suffering cease as his skin smoldered and burned, charring beneath the shackles.

All he heard was laughter. Cheering. Celebration. Delight.

Nobody cared. None of these trolls cared one whit for the message Carmine had dedicated his life to spreading. He wrenched his eyes open, and saw nothing but highbloods, seatrolls, bluebloods, greenbloods, and tealbloods rejoicing at his destruction, breathing sighs of relief that they could soon forget this small hiccup in the natural order of things. Tomorrow, they could go back to what was comfortable. Tomorrow, they wouldn’t worry anymore. Things would be familiar and numb and unquestionable again.

Carmine felt a heat rising in him that had nothing to do with pain. He grit his teeth, and almost felt a few of them crack under the pressure.

Had he really changed nothing? Would all his efforts be erased by one display of highblood power? Would Alternia really forget him, would nobody keep his legacy? How many of the trolls he’d helped and preached to would slink back into their hives, denying any involvement with him, denying that he’d ever spoken to them? How many weren’t brave enough to want something better?

_They’re bad people, other trolls._

He could hear the Psiioniic breaking, his matesprit screaming and crying out his name. He could hear Dualscar’s laughter as the Dolorosa tried to run to him.

_I did this to you. I did this to you, for no fucking reason at all. Is this the worse fucking story in the history of Alternia or what, Rosa?_

Carmine opened his eyes again, and the blueblood Darkleer was standing before him, his longbow stretched back, an arrowhead pointed directly at Carmine’s chest. _Do it. Do it. Kill me. Kill me. FUCKING KILL ME YOU FUCKING BLUEBLOOD BASTARD!!_

The arrow released, and the force of its entry was like a hammer to his body. The son of a bitch had missed his heart. He’d got him in the lung; it was a slow death for him after all.

Carmine felt his ability to breathe slowly leaving him. He knew that his next breath would be his last one, and then he would suffocate until his eyes closed for the final time. And the trolls were still laughing. They were still happy. Still content with this world. There was nothing wrong with this, nothing at all. Put the mutant in his place. Give us back our order. Make an example out of this sorry sack of shit.

There was no pain anymore. There was only rage. His rage against hopelessness, against fear, against every last troll on Alternia. They had never wanted him to be part of their people. They had never wanted him, but Carmine had always loved them. He’d loved them enough to suffer on their behalf.

But not now. Not in this moment. Not when his dream was nothing but a fantasy, and trolls were absolutely, unequivocally, and wholly every bit as bad as Rosa had always told him they were.

He breathed in, took in the deepest breath his failing lungs could hold, and opened his mouth.

“ _ **FUCK ALL OF YOU!!! FUCK!! FUUUUUUUUCK!!**_ ”

The trolls weren’t even startled by the outburst. It was as though he hadn’t spoken at all. There would be no dampening their good mood.

_One day you’ll change. One day…but it won’t be my day. Someone else, who’s stronger than I am…someone else will show you._

Carmine let his head fall forward, the irons around his hands finally cooling. Blood dribbled out from the wound in his side, from his mouth, from his lacerated chest, and down his arms.

He closed his eyes, and breathed out.


	28. Forsaken

The Psiioniic saw the moment Carmine died. The instant that the Signless’ heart ceased to beat, the second his breath left his body, the Psiioniic knew. Now the Psiioniic was alone. He had lost everything.

He didn’t even hear himself screaming. He couldn’t hear anything. He tried to break away, he tried to reach for Carmine but his hands were pulled behind him and held fast. There was no touching Carmine again. The Psiioniic would never hold him again.

The subjugglators were setting the Signless’s corpse aflame. There was to be nothing left of the traitor. Nothing left behind, no relics, no evidence. The Signless had died without dignity, without his name, his only title the Sufferer of lowbloods.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Psiioniic caught a glimpse of bright, neon green. He turned, seeing the silhouette in the distance. A slender troll, her eyes flaring blue and purple. He’d forgotten all about her; he hadn’t thought of that mysterious, disappearing troll who had doomed them since the fight at the warehouse. Nobody else seemed to notice her. She stood, her face and expression impassive, watching the Signless burn. In the instant before he lost sight of her, the Psiioniic and the troll locked eyes.

She smiled at him, and it was the saddest smile he had ever seen.

The Psiioniic didn’t want to watch Carmine’s body burn, didn’t want to see his matesprit’s flesh burning off his bones, didn’t want to watch Carmine’s husk float away as smoke into the sky. But he had no choice. None of the lowbloods had any choice. He heard the Dolorosa’s hysterical screams and cries from somewhere far away. She’d been so scared, in the beginning, that the Psiioniic would see that candy red color. She’d tried so hard to protect him.

The Dolorosa’s love and all her efforts, like everything else, had come to nothing.

The body burned slowly and gruesomely. The smell of burning hair and skin intermingled with the suffocating smoke permeating the air. Stinging, acrid clouds pierced the Psiioniic’s senses and his eyes began to water, and he coughed, shuddering to think of Carmine’s ashes drifting through the air…the Condesce was breathing in the aroma of the Signless’s death like sweet perfume, and the Grand Highblood’s tongue lolled out hungrily, his eyes glowing red with madness as the Sufferer burned.

The Psiioniic wanted to be sick, he felt nausea threatening to well up at any moment. The Dolorosa was crying, hysterical, half-insane, unable to bear the sight of Carmine’s hair burned up, his flesh peeling, his bones beginning to appear in stark contrast to the blackened remains. It was too much for her to have to bear. The fire burned hotter and hotter, the subjugglators had clearly prepared it well enough to burn away every last bit of the corpse.

Eventually, the fire burned through the flesh and down to the skeleton, the dry bones dissolving and crumbling. The Sufferer’s hands slipped from the irons, now cooled to a dull gray, emptied of their heat. He was ashes. All that remained of Carmine was already being blown away by a soft breeze.

A feral, grief-stricken scream rent the air. Every troll looked up, gazed wildly around, tried to find the source, but their eyes weren’t quick enough. Nobody’s eyes were ever quick enough to catch her.

The Disciple burst into view, running towards the flogging jut, screaming and crying, her face dripping with olive green tears. The Psiioniic’s heart tightened with fear to see her.

 _Run away,_ he wanted to scream at her. _Hide again. Don’t stay here. You’re not meant for imprisonment or slavery. You never were. Run, Disciple, hide away._

She ran past all the trolls, dodging their every attempt to grab her, close their fingers around her. But the Disciple was not prey. She was never prey; she was a huntress, and nobody but her decided her fate. At the base of the flogging jut, she dug her claws into the pile of ash, and yanked free a piece of cloth, inexplicably intact. Carmine’s leggings, the last thing they had left him. It hadn’t burned with the rest of him. The trolls gaped in astonishment, the shock on the faces of every caste. Somehow, the Sufferer had left something behind.

The Psiioniic caught one last flash of neon green in his peripheral vision.

As the Disciple turned to dart away, a stone cracked against the back of her head, impacting with a sickening, heavy thump. Dazed, she tripped, falling to the ground.

“Motherfucking _miracles_!” The riotous laughter of the Grand Highblood rumbled over the crowd, the only sound in the wasteland. “Here, kitty, kitty! I think it’s time you were made an exclusively indoor cat.”

The Disciple rolled and pulled herself up, clutching Carmine’s leggings close to her chest, baring her teeth furiously at the Highblood. The Highblood and Condesce laughed gleefully; nothing, not even this disturbance, could destroy their high spirits now.

“Oh, Darkleer,” the Condesce sang cheerily, “do us a favor and clean up this mess.”

Another blueblood handed Darkleer one more arrow. The archer’s face was unreadable behind his dark lenses. He pulled back his bowstring, the arrow trembling with pent up pressure, and pointed it at the Disciple’s chest. She stared back at him, face set, not an ounce of fear in her eyes. Neither one moved. The whole of Alternia held its breath.

“Why so serious, Darkleer?” The Grand Highblood giggled. “Come on, this is a motherfucking celebration! Let’s have the first official lowblood culling in our new, heresy-free era! Kill the naughty kitty, peasant!!”

The arrow trembled harder. Darkleer’s sweat was rolling down his face, dripping onto the ground, his teeth bared and his muscles flaring with tension. The Disciple did not move. She did not even blink.

The _twang_ of the bowstring echoed in the silence as the arrow flew loose. It landed, sinking halfway into the ground in front of the Disciple. The Grand Highblood screamed with rage.

“You _motherfucking DISGRACE!!_ ” he roared.

The Disciple leapt nimbly to her feet, the leggings grasping firmly in one hand. She ran to Darkleer, threw her arms around him, and whispered something in his ear as tears fell down her face. She turned and ran, disappearing from sight forever, taking the relic of Carmine’s suffering with her.

Darkleer was unfazed by the fury of the crowd, now directed at him. He did not seem to notice or feel the debris being thrown now in _his_ direction, hardly cared for the Highblood’s raging and orders that he be culled on the spot. The blueblood only turned, and without a word, walked away.

“Let him go,” the Condesce declared, her grin never having left her face for an instant. “As you said, dear Highblood, this is a celebration! It is a victory! Let’s not dwell on the petty insects.”

The crowd cheered again. The sun had set entirely. Night was upon Alternia, a brand new night, with the purple and green moons glimmering brightly in the sky. It was over. The treason of the Signless was gone, all thanks to Her Imperious Condescension and the Grand Highblood, the two keepers of the troll race.

The Psiioniic doubled at the waist, retched, and passed out.

\---

Of course, eventually he had to wake up.

The Psiioniic opened his eyes and found himself back in his prison cell. His mouth felt dry. His skin itched all over. He was sore and tired.

He looked over to his left, to Carmine’s cell. The irons hung from the wall, and there was nothing in them. Small, black spots of Carmine’s blood covered the wall and the floor. In the next cell over, the Dolorosa’s chains were empty as well. She wore new ones now, in the company of Dualscar.

It was quiet. The Psiioniic closed his eyes and tried to sleep again.

\---

When he fell asleep, he saw Carmine.

When he woke up, he didn’t.

The Psiioniic laid on the freezing cold floor, and cried, and vowed never to move again.

\---

It took three trolls to force food into his mouth. The Psiioniic didn’t want to eat. He told them to let him starve, but they wouldn’t allow it. The Psiioniic was damned to live longer still.

He wondered if his lusus would be proud that he was actually fighting this time. Back when he was a wriggler, and had stopped eating at the training facility, they had just been able to intimidate him back into it. That had been the first time he’d met his trainer, too. The adult had heard that the new recruit, the wriggler prodigy, was being difficult, and taken it upon himself to do something. The Psiioniic had locked himself inside his respiteblock when the adult came bursting in, grabbed him up off the floor and carried him, kicking and screaming, to his own room. There was a table set with food, more food than the Psiioniic was allowed under normal circumstances. The adult had set him down, sat across from him, and yelled at him for three hours until the Psiioniic picked up his fork and ate again.

 _You’re a coward,_ his trainer had told him. _You’re stubborn. You’re lazy. You want nothing. Do you want to just run from everything, all the time? Fucking eat, you coward. You might be spineless and weak but you’re not going to die. You don’t GET to die. I will not fucking allow it._

The Psiioniic fought them this time. Nobody told him he didn’t get to die. Nobody got to decide that. He was _determined_ to stop breathing this time.

But he had no physical strength. Resisting sustenance did nothing to change or help that. He couldn’t push them away, couldn’t wrench his hands out of their grasp. They forced him to eat, and wouldn’t let him throw it back up.

For days it continued. They were feeding him more and more, and his meals got bigger and more flavorful as they forced his strength to return. The Psiioniic didn’t know why. What did Alternia want with a psionic troll, a traitor no less, whose psionics had disappeared?

The Psiioniic didn’t give a fuck. It was easier to fight them once there was more energy back in him, but he was still nowhere near powerful enough to throw them off completely. They still shoved food down his throat, still forced him to swallow it and keep it down.

\---

“…gained a lot of his weight back, but he’s nowhere near healthy enough yet.”

“Hmm. And his psionics?”

“They’re going to come back. The effects of mind jelly can be counteracted with mind honey. In a few more nights he’ll be back to his usual strength.”

The Psiioniic was awake but kept his eyes closed. If he moved, they would know they had woken him up, and would probably try to feed him again. He’d rather lie there, motionless, and let them say whatever the hell they wanted to say. Even if they knew he was listening, they would still continue to speak of him like an object.

“Any way you could speed this up a bit? Her Imperious Condescension is eager to leave as soon as possible.”

“We could. In fact, if you wanted, we could just give him to you and _you_ finish feeding him.”

The other troll scoffed. “Ugh. I’m a fucking electrical engineer, I’m not a damn grubsitter. Look, just let me know as soon as he’s ready, all right, landdweller?” There was the sound of footsteps, and then the door opened and shut loudly.

“Seatroll prick,” the remaining troll muttered. There was the jingle of keys as the Psiioniic’s door was unlocked and opened. The Psiioniic felt a sharp kick at his shoulder.

“Wake up, mutantfucker,” the troll snapped. The Psiioniic groaned and opened his eyes, the façade over.

“You know,” the troll continued, peering down at him, “I don’t like taking care of you any more than you like being alive.”

“Then thtop,” the Psiioniic replied, his tongue feeling heavy.

“Yeah, right. If you die on my watch who do you think is going to get culled? In any case, we’ve only got about a week left before your transfer.”

The Psiioniic didn’t reply. He let himself be moved up to a sitting position, not caring enough to make eye contact with the troll.

“You’re not even going to ask me where you’re going?”

“Don’t really give a shit,” the yellowblood mumbled.

“Heh,” the troll smirked. “Yeah…I actually don’t think I should spoil the surprise.”

\---

He started to feel the familiar twinges of his psionics again a few nights later. It was not enough to cause fatal damage to himself, and so he was still stuck at the mercy of the trolls who forced him to live. He’d heard enough to figure out they were feeding him mind honey to reawake his dormant mental powers, which meant that they were keeping him alive for a reason. The Psiioniic didn’t care to figure out what.

Unfortunately, they’d anticipated his getting ideas. They started to mix a sleeping drug into his food, which made it harder for him to fight them, and impossible for him to cause any trouble when he was alone. He slept all night and day, awakening only for his food, after which he’d fall back asleep again. He found he didn’t mind it so much. Everything hurt less in his sleep.

Sometimes when they woke him he couldn’t remember where he was or what was real. More than once he’d been awakened and heard himself crying, calling out for something in his dream he didn’t really remember. They ignored him, whispered to themselves that he was going crazy, coldly continued to force food and mind honey and drugs down his throat.

One night—or day, the words had no more meaning—he woke up, and there was a subjugglator outside his cell door. The Psiioniic watched the troll impassively, and the indigoblood stared back. Three other trolls were with him, two seatrolls and one tealblood. His cell door was being unlocked, and then the subjugglator stepped in.

_They’re going to cull me. Thank god, thank god…Carmine I’ll be there soon, just wait for me…._

The massive subjugglator walked in, followed by the tealblood who bent down and unlocked the fetters around the Psiioniic’s wrists and ankles. As they fell away, the Psiioniic felt an odd sensation of lightness. He almost hadn’t noticed them being there after a while. The tealblood grabbed his arm and said curtly, “Get up.”

The Psiioniic tried, using the bars between his and Carmine’s old cell to steady himself, but his legs felt…like they weren’t his legs. He tried to stand but he was wobbly, his knees wouldn’t lock, his muscles wouldn’t stop shaking….

He fell back down to his knees. The tealblood tugged on his arm again. “Get _up_.”

“I can’t fucking walk,” the Psiioniic replied quietly, breathing in and out heavily.

“Carry him then,” said one of the seatrolls. The Psiioniic recognized his voice from several nights ago. “He’s not going to need his legs anyway.”

The subjugglator bent down and lifted the Psiioniic easily from the floor. Having those solid muscular arms around him, the Psiioniic felt like he barely existed at all. So light, so small, and so weak. Maybe he should try to escape or something, they might try to kill him….

But the thought of moving around that much made him so tired, and he didn’t struggle as they carried him out. He supposed he should have expected it, but once they were out in the hallway they gave him some water. He noticed the bitter taste before he fell asleep once again.

~~~

 _“I_ told _you not to eat that musclebeast. Why don’t you ever listen to me, huh?” Carmine knelt down on the floor next to him, pulling the wet cloth away from the Psiioniic’s eyes. He cringed and grabbed the cloth back._

_“I’ve got a headache, that’s all,” he protested._

_“You don’t have a headache, you’ve got food poisoning.” Carmine stifled a giggle. “Even the Disciple said it tasted funny, why’d you keep eating it?”_

_“I was hungry. And I thought it tasted fine.” He groaned miserably. “Ugh. Make it go away.”_

_“The only thing you can do is wait it out. Here, let’s do this.” Carmine shuffled over to where the Psiioniic’s head rested against the floor. Gently, he coaxed the sick troll’s head up and placed it in his lap. He stroked the Psiioniic’s hair, the motion smooth and rhythmic._

_“Great,” the Psiioniic said dryly. “The last thing we need is for you to get sick, too.”_

_Carmine laughed, the sound gently vibrating through his body and into the Psiioniic. “You can’t catch food poisoning from someone else!” he said. “Just relax, let the sound of my voice soothe you.”_

_The Psiioniic laughed unwillingly, eliciting a scratchy cough from his throat. “You’re so full of yourself sometimes.”_

_“Only sometimes? I need to work on that, then.”_

_Carmine continued to rub his fingers through the Psiioniic’s hair, a warm, gentle touch, and the Psiioniic felt himself drifting to sleep. He quickly forgot the ache in his head, the sick nausea in his stomach, the heat in his face…._

~~~

…until it was like he was never sick at all. He was feeling better already, with Carmine’s hands caressing him softly, taking away all the Psiioniic’s pain like always, soon he’d be healthy again….

…Yet…something was wrong. He was cold. The surface beneath him was rigid and lifeless, his head no longer supported in Carmine’s warm lap….

The Psiioniic blinked his eyes open to a blinding light. The glare was stark and painful and the room stank of sterilization. Trolls were whispering around him, there were small, rhythmic beeps coming from somewhere out of his view….

Lethargically, he moved his head and tried to look around. He was in a spacious room, with wires and computers and machines lining the walls, all of them whirring away, making a steady drone of white noise. Trolls were everywhere, all of them engrossed in one task or another, none of them paying attention to him. He attempted to move his sluggish, heavy arms, but it was a monumental effort. Something felt wrong. _Everything_ felt wrong, really, but….

He could move far enough to catch a glimpse of his arm. A horrifyingly pale, dead limb pierced with hundreds and hundreds of needles, fuchsia wires leading out and flowing down to the floor, sucking away his life and death, thousands of needles jammed underneath his skin and tapping into his nerves and muscles….

The Psiioniic grit his teeth, lacking even the strength to scream. The cold, biting horror welling up in his chest was suffocating. The trolls continued to walk around him, checking screens, checking wires, blood was absolutely everywhere on their coats and gloves and all of it was yellow….

He tried to move his feet. Nothing. His legs…nothing. Fingers, nothing. Not so much as a twitch. _Don’t panic, don’t panic, just try one at a time, one at a time…._ One by one, he attempted the slightest movement with each of his fingers, each of his toes, and one by one they ignored him. All the feeling in his limbs had vanished. His muscles were wasted and dead. His willpower was useless. The weight of the wires on his arm was getting heavier and heavier and he saw his own blood splatter on the walls and _oh god oh god oh god OH GOD NO NO NO CARMINE HELP ME HELP ME—_

He opened his mouth and the smallest whimper crept out. All his energy, all his will, and the most he could muster up was a tiny, strangled whine, just enough to attract the attention of the troll standing closest to him.

The troll reached out to touch him. The Psiioniic panicked, reaching for his psionics, and to his greatest surprise they were back, as strong as they had ever been. The room was immediately illuminated with bright flashes of red and blue, and the other trolls were yelling, cursing at each other, cursing at him, but he blocked them out. He tried to reach out and kill them, kill them all before turning his powers back on himself.

Still, nothing happened.

The red and blue energies crackled in the air around him, but that was all they did. Cold terror seeped into his chest as he tried to grab control of the erratic bolts, but they didn’t obey him. Not anymore. He had psionics again, that was for sure…but he couldn’t command them. He was just a generator, a creator of power, with no means to wield it.

He felt a tiny pinprick as a needle was shoved into his neck and he attempted to cry out one last time before he fell back into darkness. He caught a brief glimpse of the insignia on a nearby troll’s coat, and blackness filled up his vision, his body numbing and his mind falling away….

~~~

_…he fell down into cold, empty blackness, gasping and sobbing for breath. It took all his thrashing and fighting to resurface, until he could breathe again._

_The bright pink insignia flashed into his vision. The sign of Her Imperious Condescension._

_“No…” he whimpered in the darkness. “No….”_

_In the void of this non-dream, on the plane where nothing hurt and nothing was real, the Psiioniic fell to his knees and cried. He felt himself shrinking away, falling into pieces, but he wasn’t dying. Why couldn’t he just die…._

_He felt a stiff palm atop his head, and he tensed up. It felt like Dualscar, or maybe…was it the Dolorosa?_

_Was it Carmine?_

_He opened his eyes—_

~~~

—and saw a different room this time. It was bigger, sounds were louder, and it was colder, much, much colder. The faint scent of seawater floated through the air. The Psiioniic had barely the energy to turn his head.

He was still atop the same frigid table. All around him, trolls were talking, and he only caught tiny snippets through the drone of voices.

The Psiioniic ignored them. On the far wall, there was an enormous window looking out into Alternian night. It was quiet, intensely black, and dotted with dull stars. Yet something about it looked…off.

The mumbling gibberish of the background noise broke through his thoughts. One word broke through the haze of nonsense, and the Psiioniic caught it.

“…Helmsman….”

The Psiioniic’s eyes flew open.

“…the Condesce wants the Helmsman ready now….”

He hadn’t heard that. No, he couldn’t have heard that right….

Somebody put their hand on him and he flinched. Violet seatroll eyes appeared above him. “Awake, are you? Fuckin’ finally.”

_Don’t say it again. Please please please don’t say it again don’t say that word…._

“Well, let’s hurry this up,” said the seatroll, reaching over the Psiioniic to unfasten something. “The Condesce has needed a decent Helmsman for a long-ass time so she’d better be satisfied with you….”

Helmsman. The word nobody at the psionic facility was brave enough to speak. The fate of the most damned, the most unlucky, the most wretched of souls. They wouldn’t even tell the younger psionics that such a program existed until they were old enough to understand. The Psiioniic had heard about it from his trainer, though he hadn’t quite grasped it back then.

He didn’t grasp it now.

 _Helmsman…_ he thought, feeling panicked tears well up in his eyes. There was nobody to call out to for help, not anymore. No more Disciple. No Dolorosa.

“Just how the fuck do we get him up there?” another seatroll hissed. “I’m not carrying that thing.”

“We don’t have to,” the first seatroll replied. “All we do…is just dump it in here, and the ship sorts it all out on its own.”

The room was tilting. …The table was tilting, and the Psiioniic felt himself sliding off, down towards the floor, and he landed with a heavy splash into a pool of frigid seawater. With no control of his limbs, his psionics, or his composure, he panicked, took in a huge breath of water, and watched everything grow black again….

~~~

_…he opened his crying eyes and was back in the void. He looked around frantically, searching for the stranger from before, the person that had been with him, whoever it was…._

Carmine… _he tried to shout, but nothing left his mouth. No sound, only weakening breath._

~~~

Cold, sharp tentacles wrapped around him from every angle in the water. They slid invasively under his skin, into the cords and cables and his nerves and behind his eyes. He attempted to fight back, but his psionics would not come when he commanded it. Something slipped over his eyes, muffling his powers, seizing control of the energies for itself.

He was pushed slowly up out of the water as more and more tentacles latched onto him. When finally his head broke the surface, he gasped for air frantically, shivering and trembling in the freezing air. His sopping wet hair, grown longer through time and neglect, dripped icy beads of water onto his face.

The living wires continued to thrust him upward as they coiled deeper into him. From above, more wires descended to meet him, snaking around his arms and retracting back upward, stretching the Psiioniic’s hands over his head. As the living wires met the ones already installed into his body, the Psiioniic felt his consciousness changing. His brain was morphing, forcefully connected with the ship’s interface. 

Suddenly there numbers and lights and thousands upon thousands of pieces of information streaming into his head, the waves of data forcing themselves upon him. He knew everything, just like that, and there was no way to turn it off. The endless knowledge of the inner workings of this ship were all his.

When finally the wires stopped, and they clung to him pulsing in satisfaction, the Psiioniic looked up towards the window.

The night sky outside was not Alternia. It was the whole galaxy. This was a ship, but nothing like Dualscar’s.

It was the Battleship Condescension.

The Condesce’s ship.

And the Psiioniic was its Helmsman.

The first searing jolt of electricity ripped the raw power of his psionics from his eyes, the first of what would become the most familiar pain, and he screamed, howling like the damned creature he was, with blood pouring out from every orifice in his face.


	29. The Vast Glub

“Good boy,” the Condesce purred, stroking his face with cold, scaly palms. “Very good, very good….”

It was a struggle to let his consciousness drift off when he was stalled. Keeping the Battleship Condescension in a holding pattern was perhaps the easiest and most merciful of his duties, but it was also the time she came to him most. Usually, the Helmsman could forget that he had a consciousness. He could pretend he was really a machine, shut off his heart and his brain and his feelings, and just become lifeless. The only pain he ever felt was physical.

Nobody was on the ship but the two of them. The rest of the ship’s crew was down on the planet below, joining the endless forces of threshecutioners, laughssassins, and cavalreapers ravaging the newest conquest. Burning the land, killing and mutilating the regency and commoners alike. Spilling rivers upon rivers of blood into their oceans. When the smoke from the crude pyres reached up into the atmosphere, filtering into the air ducts of the Battleship, the Helmsman could remember what it was like to have senses, and he remembered the smell of burning flesh.

He did not remember why it was familiar.

“I have waited for this planet for sweeps,” the Condesce said. She lightly scratched the underside of the Helmsman’s chin with her fingernails. “They have extensive mineral resources, but would you believe the silly little savages never mined it?” She giggled. It was a beautiful sound, like tiny bells. “They believe that the places below ground are sacred. The ideas of landdwellers are adorable, don’t you think, Helmsman?”

“Yes, Empress.”

“Good boy.” She grasped his chin and kissed him. “We’ll set them to work gathering up all their pretty jewels. After all, _they’re_ not going to use them, are they?”

“No, Empress.”

She regarded the wide window before them pensively. She crossed her slender arms over her chest, tapping her nails thoughtfully on one of her golden armbands. “Perhaps bringing in a few of our own would be wise. There is a cargo ship of psionics close by. Shall we put them to work here?”

The Helmsman paused, calculating. “Yes, Empress,” he said. “It would…increase efficiency. The likelihood of increased production is high.”

She grinned, her teeth immaculate and symmetrical, sharp and deadly. “I like to hear that, Helmsman. Send a message to the cargo freighter. Tell them we’ll be requiring a shipment of psionics. You’ll figure out how many we need, won’t you, my love?”

“Yes, Empress.” The Helmsman set to work assessing the appropriate numbers for the workload, pulling in numbers off the constant data streams. His mind drifted slowly into the current of binary and calculations, and it hurt less. It was lifeless and cold among the ship’s networking, but it didn’t hurt. The numbers neither loved nor harmed him.

He remembered love. He remembered that it was good. He also remembered that it was dead.

Long ago, countless sweeps ago, he had written a program into his memory. Occasionally he would be commanded to send messages to other warships in the area. The waves traveled through the void of space, until they were caught by the intended receiver and decoded. For every message he sent, a sonar ping would accompany it, encoded with a question. He did not remember what question he had written. Only that nobody ever answered it, no matter how far his mind could reach, no matter the godlike forces he commanded, no matter how far he could travel with just a thought.

In all the vast deepness of space, something was missing. He did not know if the unnamable thing he longed for even existed.

The Helmsman was pulled from the numb embrace of machinery data as the Condesce took his chin in her hands again. She tilted his face upward, studying him. The Helmsman stared back at her, unable to close his eyes. He hadn’t been able to for hundreds of sweeps.

“Empress…” he said, a shock of electricity snapping inside his brain as he spoke. “The report isn’t completed….”

She ignored him, smiling and kissing him again. “It’s all right, my love,” she whispered as she briefly pulled away. “You won’t be punished for this delay.”

The Condesce came in closer, pushing her tongue into his mouth deeper. One slender hand was holding the back his neck, and the other stroked his face rhythmically and softly. He did nothing. Things like motion and limbs and tools of resistance weren’t for creatures like him.

“I love you, Psiioniic,” she said sweetly, pulling away to behold his face.

“I…love…you…too…Ca—”

A sharp spark of pain drove itself into his brain. His consciousness shrunk back, his emotions quieted.

The pain came again, a low, deep rumble into his head. He cringed. This wasn’t how the discipline usually felt…this was worse, much worse, what had he done to deserve this, he wouldn’t do it again….

The Condesce whipped her head around to face the window. “ _No_ ,” she whispered fiercely. “NO! GL’BGOLYB, NO!!”

From every corner of the galaxy, a single, massive cry erupted. A symphony of death throes tore through space, instant and sudden genocide.

“ _NO!!_ ” the Condesce screamed.

The Helmsman did not understand. All he could feel was burning, searing fire ripping through his lungs and his heart and his brain. He coughed, yellow blood pouring from his mouth and nose, and every breath was like inhaling acid. He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t, he had to wait for a command, had to wait for the Condesce….

“Take us back!!” she screeched, grabbing his face and screaming into it. “Take us back _now_!”

“Y-yes…Empre…th….”

He flared his psionics, reaching down deep into his brain, and propelled the ship in the direction of Alternia. The Helmsman did not need to calculate the course; he always knew the way. He pushed the ship to lightspeed, twice lightspeed…three times…four….

“Faster!” she screamed. Her voice was a discordant note among the blinding, deafening, burning agony. The Helmsman was beyond screaming. The mysterious waves of raw pain were getting worse the closer they came to their homeworld, and he was powering the ship as hard as he ever had, just to satisfy her, just so she would stop being angry with him….

“No,” the Condesce said, grabbing his face in one hand. “ _NO_ , do you hear me?! You are not dying, you psionic shit, you are _not_ dying!!”

He could barely see through the blood welling up in his eyes. His hearing had gone, his eardrums burst, his heartbeat slowing. He remembered…something. He felt joy. He did not know why.

The seatroll empress screamed at him, her lovely face contorted with rage and defeat and powerlessness. Things she knew nothing about. She grabbed his shoulders, shaking him, screaming, fuchsia tears beginning to spill down and cover her cheeks, but she was fading from his vision.

In the midst of agony, in the static of failing systems, the Helmsman scrambled to hold himself together, grabbed fruitlessly at the dissolving lines of code and streams of data, trying not to lose them, he couldn’t lose them, if he shut down, if he broke, he’d be useless and dead and unwanted and….

Static filled his vision. The Condesce flickered back into view. Everything was silent now. He heard nothing. Not the eternal whispers of the ship’s interface. Not the screaming of the mad queen. He heard silence. He heard peace.

Calm. Quiet. Comfort. He’d…forgotten….

She was crying. She spoke one word, and in the movement of her lips he could see it. _Please_ , she begged him.

“Full…thystem…crash….”

All the lights went out.

The static disappeared.

The engine failed, and the Helmsman died.


	30. Brave New World

“So let’s count how many times you broke the one rule I’ve given you,” Dualscar said, standing in front of the Psiioniic, staring down unsympathetically. Dualscar stroked his chin pensively, faking contemplation. “First you said…’no.’ Then, you said, ‘I can’t.’ Which you then said a second time. And finally, you said, ‘I don’t want to.’”

The Psiioniic couldn’t move. He was beyond panic and shock now.

“That’s…four times.” Dualscar held up four fingers. “Four times you broke the rule I told you. So that means I’ll have to punish you four times.”

As Dualscar lashed out to grab his wrist, the Psiioniic shut his eyes frantically. He felt everything crashing down around him like the circle of rocks he had once trained with. Nothing was making any sense.

“Count,” Dualscar told him, and the first slap, thick and heavy, slammed into the Psiioniic’s face.

It stung, worse than he’d expected. The Psiioniic bit his tongue by mistake, and he barely moved his lips to speak. “…One,” he whimpered.

“Turn your head back,” Dualscar commanded. Swallowing hard, keeping his eyes down, the Psiioniic did so, and immediately he was struck again. It hurt even worse this time.

“T-…two,” he said quietly, feeling his eyes begin to water. Halfway done. He was halfway there.

Again. A few tears escaped, unbidden. “Three….” His voice was failing. But he wouldn’t cry. Crying was weakness, his trainer always said. If you cried during a punishment, then you hadn’t really learned.

The last one hurt worst of all. The seatroll put all his strength into it, and when the hit connected, the Psiioniic’s head snapped violently to the side. Dualscar released his tight hold on the Psiioniic’s wrist, and the wriggler sniffled, staring angrily at the ground. “Four,” he whispered.

“Very good, very good!” Dualscar said, his voice sounding almost joyous. “Now if you want to avoid that in the future, you won’t cause so much of a scene next time, now will you?”

“…No sir.” He struggled to keep his voice steady until Dualscar left. Once he was gone, the Psiioniic could cry as much as he wanted. Just never in front of an adult. That was never acceptable, no matter what.

“Good.” The seatroll raised his hand and the Psiioniic flinched, but it only came down softly atop his head, ruffling his hair. “Bit of a rough start, but you’re a good troll. Now, I’m going to go gather up my things. I suggest you do the same, because we’re leaving shortly.”

“Okay.” Heavy footsteps. The seatroll was walking away.

The Psiioniic waited until the canyon was completely silent before he raised his eyes again. The mangled and bloodied body of his trainer laid on the rocky floor, taunting him, a grotesque reminder of what the Psiioniic was really meant for. He was a weapon and a tool. Not a real troll, not a real person. Just something to be used by his superiors.

The wriggler scowled, hot tears spilling out of his eyes and down his face, into the tiny cuts left by Dualscar’s rings. The Psiioniic pulled up his sleeve and angrily ripped the bandage away, revealing the tender new scars. He hated them. He hated the way they hurt, how they would never go away, how nobody, _nobody_ at all had cared about the pain he felt.

He threw the bandage to the ground, and it fell softly, without a sound. He stomped it, kicked it, prayed the wounds would get infected and he’d die miserably and slowly while Dualscar watched. Tears were falling faster and he breathed in shuddering breaths, holding back his sobs though he didn’t know why.

At some point, he ran out of energy. The bandage laid torn and dusty in the dirt. His trainer laid dead, the wind blowing dead grass and pebbles over his body. The Psiioniic turned and walked away.

Near the canyon wall was a large boulder, completely out of the light of the moon. He shuffled over to it and sat down, back against the rock, curled himself into a ball and cried.

He knew that it didn’t matter how loud he sobbed, or if he screamed or beat his fists against the ground or tried to hurt himself, because nobody would care. Nobody in the whole of Alternia cared. His lusus was dead, his hive burned. He remembered them carrying him out, restraining his kicking and thrashing limbs, ignoring his screaming. He remembered how they punished him for asking if his lusus was alive, how they brought him to the facility and locked him in his assigned respiteblock for days until he would agree to stop crying.

Slowly, day by day, hour by hour, they broke him. They took away everything and rebuked him for resisting. All goodness and love had died with his lusus. Not a speck of it remained anywhere in the world.

The Psiioniic flinched violently as something brush against his arm. He looked up, gazing around for the source.

There was nothing. It had just been the wind.

\---

Dualscar never returned. The moons never set. The Psiioniic circled the canyon over and over, waiting for him. Nobody came out from the psionic facility to look for him. Nobody even came outside to train. The wind kept rustling the dead leaves on the ground, pushing wisps of dirt along through the air.

Sometimes the Psiioniic would lay down, staring up at the sky, but the stars were no source of comfort to him. If anything, they reminded him of a distant pain, and the most bitter loneliness.

\---

“Very good, very good! Now if you want to avoid that in the future, you won’t cause so much of a scene next time, now will you?”

“…No sir.”

Dualscar patted him on the head and walked away.

He never came back.

Every time the Psiioniic fell asleep, he awoke and the scene repeated. He did not question why. Why should any lowblood question anything?

 _I’m missing something,_ he would think, occasionally. _Something’s supposed to happen next._

But it was too tiring to think of, and he accepted the fact that he was in Hell.

\---

The Psiioniic always went back to the boulder by the rock wall. He didn’t know why, because the only thing there was emptiness and disappointment. He laid down in the dirt, his fingers tracing circles and meaningless patterns in the dust. The wind always blew one away before he started on the next. It didn’t matter. He didn’t remember what he was drawing anyway.

He dragged one finger through the dirt, making a long, unbroken line. For a while, he just stared…something was odd about it. Slowly, contemplatively, he reached up and drew another line, crossing through the first one, until an X sat in the dirt before him.

The Psiioniic sat up and looked at it. The wind came again, harder than before. Frantic, he bent his small body over the sign, trying to shield it from the gusts, but they were merciless this time. As if the canyon were reprimanding him for making it, the X was blown away in a matter of seconds.

The ground below him was clean and unblemished now. Perfect and empty.

The Psiioniic grit his teeth, swallowing back the lump in his throat, and he grabbed up fistfuls of sand and dirt and smashed his hands into the ground, screaming just to scream, crying because that was all he could do.

“You lied to me,” he whispered angrily, cutting his hands on the rocks and pebbles, scratching long holes into the ground with his fingernails. “You lied to me! You _lied_!”

He sat back on his heels, grabbing the cloth of his pants and crying, every sob like the slice of a knife through his heart. It was so natural to cry here, it was like breathing. In Hell, he supposed, things were just like that. But it never got easier.

The Psiioniic looked up, to the towering walls of the canyon. The stars had long since left. The sky too. It was nothing but a white void up there anymore. He didn’t know how long it had been like that.

He sat back against the boulder and curled into a tiny ball again. His face always stung from Dualscar’s hand. His eye was always bruised, his cheeks always cut and bleeding.

A long time ago, he remembered, there had been a glimpse of hope. The smallest but brightest light, burning so hot it had snuffed itself out.

Why did he keep coming out here? What about this rock made him keep coming back, what about this spot was so familiar? Night after night, he tried to remember.

_Something impossible happened here once. Something I never dreamed of, something that I still can’t quite believe…._

There was a small tap on his arm. The Psiioniic didn’t react. The touch always came, and it was always nothing. It would go away again this time.

Another tap. More forceful.

He raised his face. A tiny hand was resting against his arm. He looked up, and gazed into the eyes of a small wriggler, covered in gray.

The wriggler smiled, and beckoned for the Psiioniic to come behind the rock. Without hesitation, the Psiioniic obeyed, scrambling to his feet and darting around the back. There, the wriggler was sitting, a huge smile on his face, his arms extended, open, waiting for the Psiioniic to fall into them….

The Psiioniic didn’t. He slumped to the ground, watching the face of the other troll. The wriggler’s smile disappeared, and his arms lowered slowly, shakily, to the ground beside him. For an unknowable amount of time, the two trolls stared at each other, not speaking.

The Psiioniic regarded the other wriggler with deepest suspicion. He narrowed his eyes, his fists and muscled tensed. “How’d you get here?” he asked. An echo of sometime far away.

“It doesn’t matter how I got here,” the other wriggler said, forcing a small smile. “I was supposed to find you.”

“I…I gueth.” The Psiioniic wiped his eyes, flinching as his hand hit the bruises.

“What happened?” asked the wriggler, frowning at his injuries.

“I got in trouble,” he replied softly.

“…Was it because of me?”

The Psiioniic recalled a brief image. A faded piece of yellow cloth….

“No,” he replied. “A lot’s happened. I don’t know how to deal with any of it.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” The wriggler grinned widely at him. “Maybe I can help.”

“…You can’t.”

The Psiioniic paused, then pushed himself up to his feet. He turned to go, but the other wriggler grabbed his hand.

“…It doesn’t go like this,” the wriggler said, his voice tight, the only sound in the deathly silence. “It…this isn’t how it happens.”

“What do you mean?” the Psiioniic mumbled.

“I mean—” The wriggler stood frantically. “I mean it doesn’t happen this way. You don’t leave. …Do you remember?”

The Psiioniic stared at the ground. “I don’t…remember anything.”

“Nothing? Not at all? You don’t remember coming here, you don’t remember that Dualscar was coming to take you away from me, you don’t remember that I wasn’t strong enough to save you?” The wriggler’s voice was anxious.

The Psiioniic didn’t look up. The wriggler’s grasp on his hand was getting tighter. “You don’t remember Rosa? She’s here with me. I found her, she…she showed up. After a while. …She was so scared. I think she thought I was going to hurt her.” The wriggler paused, swallowing hard. “I had to stay with her every time she went to sleep, because she woke up crying all the time. All I could do was tell her I loved her, and that I was sorry. And finally, one night…she remembered me. We’re together now. She’s waiting for you too.”

There was silence between them. The Psiioniic didn’t know what to say.

“I found the Disciple too,” the wriggler continued. “She was here for a while, but she’s with somebody else now. Do you remember Darkleer?” He smiled. “Yeah, they’re moirails now. She wanted to be with him more than anything. So they’re together too, somewhere else….”

The Psiioniic turned and looked the wriggler in the eye. He didn’t know what he was expected to say. He found the wriggler’s face full of tears, though the smile remained. It was a nice smile…the Psiioniic liked it.

The wriggler lifted his hand and showed him the back of it. There was a crude, tiny X scar there. “Do you remember this?”

“I….”

Gently, the wriggler took the Psiioniic’s hand and held it in his own, rubbing his thumb over the back of it. “You’ve got one too. See?”

The Psiioniic looked; indeed he did. “I don’t underthtand.”

The wriggler’s face grew solemn. “Once…a long time ago, I promised you something. I promised I’d be with you, no matter what, and that I’d protect you. I promised you that you’d never be alone or scared. I broke that promise.” He grasped the Psiioniic’s hand tight. “Everything that I meant to do for you, I couldn’t. And I’m sorry. I’m really— _really_ —fucking sorry, Psiioniic.”

Still, the Psiioniic said nothing. The wriggler was crying bright red tears. The color was glorious, rich, full of brightness and promise and love.

“I know that you might…might never remember me,” said the troll, struggling to steady his voice. “And I know that if you do, you might hate me, because I abandoned you. But there’s something you have to understand, all right? You and I…we’re both dead.”

Death. He’d wanted that for so long. He’d wanted freedom, he’d wanted rest. He’d wanted…a smiling, laughing child with warm hands…a kind and loving prophet with strong arms and dreams of the past.

“We’re dead, and the only reason I’m here is because our places happened to meet,” he was saying. “It’s rare for dreambubbles to join up, but it can happen. But it won’t—it’s not going to stay forever. If you don’t remember me…if you don’t come with me right now, you’re going to leave, and I’ll never, ever see you again.”

The winds were silent.

“…Dreambubble?” the Psiioniic repeated. “No, I’m in…this is Hell.”

“No.” The wriggler touched his face tenderly. “No, you’re not in Hell. You’re stuck in a memory, but you don’t have to stay here. The only difference between Heaven and Hell is who you’re with.”

The Psiioniic reached up, feeling the soft hand touching him, tracing the outline of the little raised scar. Every moment he said nothing, the wriggler grew more and more distraught. The Psiioniic cautiously reached out and wiped away a few of his tears. The bright red color shone vividly on his fingers.

“…What’s the name of this color?” he asked softly.

“That?” The wriggler giggled brokenly. “That’s called carmine.”

The Psiioniic looked up. “That’s your color. That’s…your name.”

He nodded vigorously, smiling as the tears fell faster.

“…You weren’t there,” the Psiioniic murmured pensively, staring at his fingertips, bright and stained with red tears. “You weren’t there when I needed you.”

The smile fell away as resigned guilt crept into Carmine’s eyes.

The Psiioniic continued to stroke the backside of Carmine’s hand and stared pensively at the ground, remembering…remembering so much.

“I don’t even know how long it was. They made me a machine. I was an engine, they made me just…a thing. And I looked for you. Everywhere. I could go anywhere in the whole universe with just a thought, I could command billions and billions of numbers and words and data lines and…I was like a god. But I never found you again. Even after I forgot your name, I still looked for you.” He looked up. “But you weren’t there.”

“…I’m sorry, Psiioniic.” He swallowed tightly, and let his hand fall from the Psiioniic’s face. “I’m…I fucked up.”

“…No.” The word pushed itself out from his mouth, breaking through the haze, destroying the wall in his memory.

The Psiioniic stepped forward and threw his arms around Carmine, squeezing as tight as he could, and Carmine embraced him right back like he’d never let go. “No, you didn’t fuck up. There’s…there’s nothing wrong with you. Nothing.”

He leaned back, keeping his arms around Carmine, and looked into the eyes of the Signless, _his_ Signless, suddenly grown into the body he’d had at his death. Carmine laughed, his voice deep and musical and lasting. “So you forgive me?” he asked tearfully.

“No,” the Psiioniic replied, laughing, hearing his own voice changed to an adult’s timbre. “Because you didn’t do anything wrong. You came to get me. You came just like you said.”

Carmine laughed again, wiping his tears away, and leaned forward, placing his lips on the Psiioniic’s, where they fit just right, where they belonged. The Psiioniic felt Carmine’s wet, warm tears smearing against his face, and pulled him closer, held him tighter. He remembered the way his arm fit right across the small of Carmine’s back, remembered how Carmine always put his hand on the back of the Psiioniic’s neck, keeping him there, never letting him leave. Carmine was breathing into him, and the Psiioniic felt his own heartbeat for the first time in eons.

The kiss ended but neither of them let go. Carmine put his head on the Psiioniic’s shoulder, his forehead fitting just right up against his neck. His body heat was radiating out and warming the Psiioniic deep into his bones. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been cold.

“You said this is a memory,” the Psiioniic said. “Does that mean…it has to go the way it did before?”

“Of course not!” Carmine exclaimed. He pulled his head back to look the Psiioniic in the eye. “We’ll both go this time. You can fly me up to the top there, can’t you? You can take us both up.”

The Psiioniic held Carmine close, wrapping one arm around him and holding his head against his chest. Carmine tightened his arms around the Psiioniic’s body. The Psiioniic looked up the edge of the cliff, and flared his psionics, wrapping the red and blue energies around him and his matesprit. Slowly, because he hadn’t done this in so long, he pulled them both up, and the ground fell away beneath them.

They levitated up to the edge of the rock wall, leaving the canyon and the facility behind. The Psiioniic looked down, watching it disappear below him, the dull and monochrome colors already fading out. He was leaving that place. Finally, he was leaving.

The landing wasn’t gentle as the Psiioniic clumsily set them down on the ground. He tripped, falling and dropping his matesprit, and Carmine laughed as he went tumbling out of the Psiioniic’s grip.

“Thorry,” he mumbled softly.

“It’s okay,” Carmine replied, grabbing either side of his face and kissing him again. “It’s okay, it’s okay….”

They laid in the dried grass of the desert, side by side, and a small _pop_ resounded in the air. They looked back and saw no sign of the cliff or the canyon. Far off in the sky, a small, frail bubble was floating away.

“It’s gone,” Carmine said, grinning wide.

“Are we gonna go home now?”

“Yeah.” He sat up, resting his forearms on his knees. It seemed the smile would never leave his face. “We can go anywhere, really. I mean…my and Rosa’s hive is back that way—” he pointed behind him “—and we can go there first, but we don’t have to stay. We can find another place, if you like.”

The Psiioniic smiled. “Yeah.” He stood up, extending a hand to Carmine. “We’ll go see Rosa first.”

Carmine gripped his hand eagerly and jumped to his feet. They were wrigglers again, their hands clasped together tightly. Carmine leaned over and kissed the Psiioniic on the cheek.

The two walked off, and the sound of children’s laughter echoed through the desert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So during the writing of this story I received a ton of awesome fanstuff from my amazing readers! It's all compiled here at my tumblr, so go give it a look!
> 
> http://robotsquid.tumblr.com/post/18171166080/primary-colors-fanwork-masterlist

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